


River Teeth

by nonbinarybead



Series: River Teeth [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Body Horror, Drama, Heavy Angst, Horror, I cry while writing most of this, Kenny McCormick - Freeform, Kyle Broflovski - Freeform, LGBTQ Character, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Multi, Relationship(s), Romance, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, Spstyle, Stan Marsh - Freeform, StanxKyle - Freeform, south park - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinarybead/pseuds/nonbinarybead
Summary: On the edge of graduating from high school, Stan proposes to Kyle in the hopes they can run away together; finally getting out that little mountain town. However, Kyle isn’t sure if it’s the right thing to do and turns him down. The next day, Stan goes missing.Pure hell ensues.A couple of things you should know about this fic:1. There will be triggering plot points. If you’re sensitive to things like suicide or domestic abuse, then please don’t read.2. I’ve done my absolute best to write gracefully about these things, but your mental health is more important.There are “Fractured But Whole” AU elements in this story, as are supernatural influences.





	1. Destroyer

**River Teeth:** “...these are hard, cross-grained whorls of human experience that remain inexplicably lodged in us, long after the straight-grained narrative material that housed them has washed away. Most of these whorls are not stories, exactly: more often they’re self-contained images of shock or of in ordinate empathy; moments of violence, uncaught dishonesty, tomfoolery; of mystical terror; lust; joy. These are our “river teeth”- the knots of experience that once tapped into our heartwood, and now defy the passing of time.” -David James Duncan

 

_Sometime in late 2013_

 

Kyle watched, mouth agape, as the thick, black marker dragged across the skin of his left hand, top left to bottom right, then top right to bottom left. The woman doing this seemed distant, perhaps numbed by the loud music that swelled against the dark walls and neon beer signs. She had a silver septum piercing that gave an edge to her already cute face. Kyle wanted one. The ink seeped and spread like tiny black veins across the tops of his knuckles. X marks the spot. X shows that you can’t legally handle alcohol. X shows that you’re 14 and have come out to your parents with your new(ish) boyfriend just a few hours before, then left to a concert with said new(ish) boyfriend because they didn’t want to sit around and hear what their parents thought of them. It was all planned anyway. Dump the news on the families and split before they can protest.

A beer can flew past Kyle’s face and landed by the bar.

Stan was next. He frowned, watching the marker drag over his skin to form a jagged, sober X. He looked up at Kyle and gave him a smile, a polite smile. The one that you copy and paste to yourself when there are strangers about.

“Enjoy the show.”

“Thank you,” Stan squeaked, then grimaced. Both of them still suffered from a voice crack now and then. With each other, it was okay to tease about it, but in public, it could be painful.

Kyle couldn’t remember the band they were seeing; he glanced at his ticket- Strawberry Migraine. Stan was always hung up on indie or local bands- Local Natives, Speedy Ortiz, Butcher Babies, Sparklehorse, Phantogram- dear lord, he never shut up about Phantogram. He put the ticket in his back pocket.

“I didn’t think there would be this many people,” shouted Stan. R & B pushed itself out of the stage speakers. The bass throbbed and rattled in both of their chests. He grabbed onto Kyle’s hand so they wouldn’t lose each other in the seedy venue. People of all shapes and sizes dodged past the two boys as they made their way to the stage. Some of them stole a glance at their intertwined hands.

“It’s Friday,” Kyle shouted. Stan shook his head and shrugged his shoulder. He couldn’t hear. Kyle leaned down slightly and repeated himself into Stan’s ear: “It’s Friday. People are off of work now.”

“Oh,” said Stan, “Yeah, true.”

 _Really, Kyle?_ He thought, _you just came out to your parents and ran off with your boyfriend and now you’re giving the most mundane responses as if nothing happened today?_

“I’m glad you’re here,” Stan said and squeezed Kyle’s hand. Kyle blushed. Stan’s gaze was serene but somehow steely; the way his eyes narrowed in on Kyle gave him chills. Stan never expressed one singular emotion at a time. It was always mixed. Kyle could never tell what he was thinking, and as a result, became accustomed to being terrified of what was going through his mind. Stan would always be Stan, but lately, he had started saying and doing some alarming things. One day Stan would say things like “I fucking suck,” to radiating soaring confidence that same afternoon. One time he said “I can’t picture my future, it’s just black. Why can’t I picture myself being older?” One time Kyle caught him digging his fingernails into his wrists in a frustrated yet absent-minded stupor.

(why are you doing this Stan)

(i don’t know. i can’t feel anything)

(did i do something

can i do something)

(no. never.

i can’t talk about this)

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Kyle leaned into Stan’s shoulder. The music changed to a subdued surfer-rock bop. Their boots picked up the stickiness of the floor whenever they shifted their weight. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me.”

Stan turned and kissed Kyle on the highest point of his cheekbone. “But it’s a date! I want to take care of you,” he insisted.

 _You’ve always taken care of me…_ Kyle thought back to all the weird shit that has happened in South Park over past several years. Stan seemed to understand what Kyle was thinking of by the way he turned his face and planted a firm kiss on his small mouth. _What bogus is that,_ Kyle mused, _I can’t know what he’s thinking but he can read me like a fucking book._ But his thoughts about what is fair and unfair faded away and the kiss took over. Stan’s thoughts entombed a cesspool of intensity, passion, mania, bleakness, love and intrusion, but he wouldn’t know the clinical label for it for quite some time. Kyle just knew that Stan was Stan, and he was himself, and he is the way he is because Stan is the way he was.

The two parted when a few musicians- the opening band, judging by the banner being pinned up on the back wall of the stage- started doing their soundchecks. The deep beat of the bass drum excited Kyle; it vibrated through his whole body. He squeezed Stan’s hand, interlaced his fingers. He wanted him. He could take him right there on the floor, amongst the sticky tiles and empty bottles. He could imagine grabbing Stan’s sweat-soaked hair and pushing his face into his neck and crying _hurt me, I want you to hurt me._

The guitarist strummed a few rushed chords and the audience clapped.

Kyle glanced down at their hands. Neither of them had gotten that far yet- they had been close after a couple of heated make-out sessions, but the truth was that neither of them knew what to do, or even how to start. _There’s plenty of time. When the right moment comes… that’s just it. It’ll feel right._

The opening band filed onstage to applause and raised pointer and pinky fingers.

“Yay!” Stan whooped. He grinned at Kyle.

“Wait, do you know them too?”

“Yeah! I think I’ve told you about October Hands before.”

“Oh.”

“I was trying to hold my excitement in so I wouldn’t look so dorky.”

“But-”

An older man in a black tank top, who had been watching them for some time, clapped his hairy hands on the boys’ shoulders, causing them to jolt.

“So, you two came together huh?”

Kyle turned to look at him. He was eye-level with the guy. One day soon, Kyle would be taller. Stan looked up at him.

“Yes. Yes we did,” Stan unleashed their fingers, then gripped his hand into a defensive fist.

The man clapped his hands on their shoulders again. October Hands introduced themselves, then slammed into their first song.

“Stay right there. Don’t go anywhere.”

The man disappeared behind them, blending with the mass of bodies. Stan and Kyle looked at each other.

“Should we leave?” Stan shouted. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern, but Kyle didn’t want him to miss his bands because of some bigot.

“No, fuck him!” Kyle slid his arm around a beaming Stan’s waist. “By the way, I love your dorkiness.”

Stan nuzzled into Kyle’s neck, pressed his lips into his soft skin. He felt Stan’s eyelashes brush lightly on his jawline. He shuddered a bit. Stan kissed his cheek again and looked out at the stage. Kyle suppressed the urge to pull Stan into the bathroom and lick every part of his body. He forced himself to look at the stage too. Kyle was never really into metal, nevertheless indie metal, but it was entertaining.

The man from before returned suddenly, holding three beer cans above his head. “For you!” he gestured them to Stan and Kyle.

“I don’t think we should-” Kyle began.

“It’s just Guinness, it’s good for you.”

Stan wasn’t apprehensive at all. He took two cans and opened them both, then thrust one at Kyle’s chest. He took it with a bone-white hand. The foam gushed at the small opening, begging to be licked up.

The man grinned at Stan, “good kid,” he remarked. He put a hand on the back of Kyle’s neck of Kyle’s neck. Not creepily, but in a father-type way.

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to live your fucking life,” he said. Kyle smelled his breath. It was safe to assume that he had been already drinking and was feeling sentimental. _Great._ “Does he make you happy?” the man asked Kyle, pointing at Stan with his own can.

“Yes,” Kyle said. He smiled weakly at Stan. He tried not to make eye contact with the stranger. He looked at Stan and asked him the same thing: “does he make you happy?”

“Very much so,” Stan never sounded so sure of anything in his life.

The man seemed satisfied with this answer. “Cheers!” he said. He gave them one last nod and then disappeared into the people again.

“Thank you!” Stan called after him. October Hands transitioned into a new song. A few people towards the front of the stage tried to start a mosh pit. Kyle dove and started sucking the foam off the top of his Guinness like a crane diving for small fish in a lake. “I wish I was that can,” said Stan with a teasing smile. Kyle blushed.

“I pretended it was,” he shot back. Then it was Stan’s turn to blush. They continued watching the band, bopping along, drinking, brushing their hands together, trying to avoid getting sucked into the pit. When October Hands threw their last guitar pick into the crowd and walked off. The venue’s music played again. _Trevor Something. Interesting choice._

“What did you think?” Stan was done with his Guinness now. Kyle noticed small streaks of sweat piling on Stan’s forehead, just under the cloth of his hat. Kyle put his free arm around Stan’s shoulders and pulled him into a deep, slightly buzzed, sloppy kiss. His tongue pushed it way into the warm, wet opening, tasting everything Stan had said that day, especially to his parents: “I care about Kyle,” he tasted, “I love him” he tasted that too, “you can’t stop us from loving each other,” he savored that the most.

A few crew members for Strawberry Migraine began their soundcheck. Kyle pulled away but kept his arm around Stan’s shoulders.

“I’m in love with you,” he rasped.

Stan smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded, “I’m in love with you too.”

The sound of the drums being tested thundered in Kyle’s body again. “I’m proud of what we did today.”

“Me too.” Stan suddenly hugged Kyle, “I don’t know what I would have done,” he said into his ear.

“What?”

Stan tensed around Kyle’s body: “I don’t know what I would have done if you had died that one day.”

 

_October 2, 2010_

 

Eric Cartman entered his backyard with a cup of hot cocoa that his mom had just made, and one of his books for school. He slid the glass door behind him. They had started reading _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton as a class. He liked it fine, but he had a hard time taking any character named Ponyboy or Sodapop seriously.

The air was crisp and smelled of spruce. It was that first assault of an oncoming winter, but anyone that had grown up in South Park had thick enough skin to just regard it as another day. Cartman didn’t even wear gloves.

5th grade was four weeks in now and it felt like the world was backward. The school had separated his class into two groups, two separate classrooms- one group would study English and social studies with one teacher, and the second group would have a science and math lab with a different teacher. After lunch, the groups would switch off.

Cartman was placed in the first group, the English and social studies group, while Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Butters were in the group that did math and science in the morning. He never saw them except for at lunch or that transitional march down the hallway, where the two groups would pass each other on the way to their consequential classrooms. The other boys took this as an opportunity to distance themselves from Cartman, as they had tried and failed to do so many times before. Cartman noticed, and immediately began inserting himself into moments of their lives where he obviously wasn’t welcome. He watched one afternoon as all of them engaged in a game of kickball.

No one asked him if he wanted to join.

No one even looked over to him.

He kicked up a spray of dirt and gravel in Stan and Kyle’s direction and sulked off.

Cartman sat down on one of the chairs and thought about the day before. It was Friday, and he wanted to see if he could get even the tiniest reaction out of Kyle. _I’m still in your life you little fuck, you can’t ignore me forever._

It happened during the switching of the classrooms.

All of them shuffled down the hallway with their textbooks and folders, past rows of lockers. When he saw Stan and Kyle listening to Kenny who was walking backward and mumbling things (about ‘big titties’ presumably). He pointed at Kyle’s foot:

“Mmph Mmph, mmmph mmmph mph, mmmphh (Hey Kyle, your boot is untied).”

“Gimme your books so you can tie it,” said Stan, even though Kenny was already holding out his arms to offer the same thing.

“Thanks, Stan.” Kyle deposited his supplies on top of Stan’s pile of books then bent down on one knee. The other students parted into two streams and walked around them until it was the three of them behind the line.

Cartman seized his chance. He dropped his books and relished in the echoing thunder that violated the halls, causing everyone to look up at him. Except for Kyle. He knew who it was. He saw Cartman’s face for just a moment a few seconds earlier. He knew him too well and he didn’t want to anymore. He just wanted attention. And what do you do when a child is having a tantrum? You don’t give them what they want. Kyle didn’t even want to breathe when he was near.

Cartman charged.

Kenny turned towards him and stuck out a hand to stop him, but it wasn’t far or fast enough.

Cartman lunged down, crashed into Kyle, and they both slid across the marble floor. Cartman hit the top of his head on the locker, but with the force of his hand under Kyle’s chin, made sure that Kyle hit his head even harder. Much harder. Kyle instantly blacked out. His foot, wearing the still untied boot, twitched sporadically.

“Kyle!” Stan and Kenny screamed in unison. Cartman, wide-eyed, released his grip around Kyle’s neck and stared at the pale boy crumpled on the floor like an unstrung puppet. His head stung.

“Eric! What were you thinking?!” Mr. Garrison ran over. He got down and lifted Kyle’s wrist, checking for a pulse. Stan was holding onto Kyle’s knee, absolutely flushed. “He’s okay, he’s just knocked out, children,” he turned to Stan, “He’s okay, Stan.”

Kyle’s eyes fluttered open. They were almost completely bloodshot. One pupil was severely dilated.

“Kyle!” Stan tried to hug his friend, Kenny grabbed his shoulder and shook his head.

“Give him some space, Stan. Kenny, run down to the office and have them call an ambulance,” Garrison commanded. Kenny dashed away. Garrison put his hands on Kyle’s shoulders, “Well, congratulations Kyle, you got the first concussion of the school year. Can you stand up?”

Kyle blinked a few times before answering in a tiny voice: “I think.”

“Okay, I’ll go slow.”

“That’s what she said,” Cartman quipped. He wanted so badly to squirrel away this moment, to remember Kyle on the floor, a twisted skeleton, in pain, because of him.

He was met with burning glares from everyone, Stan stood up and pointed at Cartman, “Fuck you, dude! You almost killed Kyle!”

“But I didn’t though. Your little Jew cumrag will live to see another oven.”

“Shut the fuck up, Cartman!” Stan stormed over, raised his fist, ready to strike. The students and Garrison clamored and yipped, the students’ enthusiasm amidst Garrison’s warnings to stop.

“Stan!” A strangled voice cried out, “Stop!”

Everyone stopped and looked to the voice. It was Kyle’s. He was standing now. A little wobbly, but he was up. His eyes were wide and wild. His hat had fallen off, and his red ringlets clung to the sides of his face and forehead.

“Oh, shit!” Butters cried, “He’s got the Jersey face on again… you’re fucked, Eric!”

“You don’t scare me,” Cartman replied, zeroing in on Kyle’s mouth. He was almost foaming like a rabid dog.

“I wanna fucking punch him,” Kyle said to no one in particular. Everyone, including Stan, backed up a little. Mr. Garrison kept a grip on Kyle’s shoulder, but Kyle drudged over close to Cartman, taking Garrison with him.

“Kyle, don’t you dare! We’re ending this now!” Garrison warned.

Kyle ignored him. “My fist is going down your fucking throat, lardfuck! I’m going to pull out your insides and throw them somewheres in the ocean!” He spat in Cartman’s face.

Cartman wiped it off with a flick of his wrist and stood there calmly; arms at his sides. He was basking in the spotlight again. Kyle was leaned forward over Garrison’s arm across his chest. “Why did you fucking do that you absolute dipfuck!”

“Because I…” Cartman was suddenly caught off-guard by a worm-like stream of blood flowing from Kyle’s nose. It hit the top of his lips and fanned out over the corners of his mouth. Cartman had never seen anything so beautiful before. _I did that,_ he thought, _I made Kyle bleed…_ “Because I wanted to see what would happen.” He managed to say.

Kyle opened his mouth to deliver a nasty retort, but a wave of vomit rose and gushed from him, spilling all over the floor, earning a collective groan from all of the students. Kyle slumped over Garrison’s arm. The force of the upheaval caused him to pass out again.

Cartman smiled to himself as the memory played again in his mind. Truthfully, he had felt a _little_ guilt up until Kyle’s parents showed up and Sheila Broflovski got in Liane Cartman’s face and told her she was raising a psychopath.

He got suspended for two weeks.

Cartman sipped the hot chocolate Liane had so lovingly made for him.

_Psychopath._

The word sounded sensual to him. It teased him to come closer. He wanted to put his fingers inside it and wiggle them around. He wanted to make Kyle bleed again. _Might as well be what they think I am. But what to do, what to do…_

He set down the pale blue mug and _The Outsiders_ on the plastic footrest and stood up. Put his hands on his hips. He could sneak into Kyle’s room, he knew how. He could crawl in very early in the morning and press a blade to his flesh. Not in such a way that it would kill him, but enough to see the crimson wash over him in beads. It would be direct. Fast. Unexpected, but traditional.

A crash came from the shed where he and his mom kept their bikes. The door was ajar. Cartman cursed himself for not remembering to lock it before. It may be some asshole from his class, snooping around.

Agitated as hell, Cartman walked over to the shed, flung the door open, expecting to see Clyde or Craig rummaging around, but instead of a classmate, there stood a large, hissing raccoon. Its beady black eyes glowered at Cartman as it prepared to lunge. Cartman gasped and immediately slammed the door. Hastily he closed the silver lock. The raccoon continued hissing and scratching on the inside.

Eric Cartman thought of something just then.

 

…

 

Cartman knocked on the Broflovski’s door. He mentally ran through what he would depending on who answered the door- Ike: push him out of the way and go upstairs, Mr. Broflovski: explain that he wants to apologize to Kyle and ask to be let in, Mrs. Broflovski: drop trou, piss on the steps, and run away. If it was Kyle…

Kyle answered the door. He was still in his pajamas and looked dazed. His pupils were back to normal, but the whites of his eyes were still bloodshot, and when he looked on Cartman, he sneered.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“And good morning to you Kyel, how’s your little head?”

“Go away,” Kyle went to close the door. Cartman put his foot forward to stop him. “I said go away, Cartman! I don’t want to see you.”

“I understand that, and I’ll leave as soon as I say what I need to say.”

Kyle’s grip loosened on the door. He opened it again, “What?”

“Can I come inside?”

“Uh, I guess,” Kyle hesitantly stepped aside and let Cartman walk in. He closed the door. “Okay, say what you need to say. I want to go back to bed.”

“I thought that it’s dangerous to sleep after a concussion. Where is everyone?”

“They went to Whole Foods. And that’s actually a myth. I’ve already been treated, sleeping will help me recover.”

_Maybe I should have hit you harder._

Cartman walked past Kyle and sat on the couch. He patted the seat next to him. Kyle rolled his eyes, but he slid onto the cushion by him anyway.

“Kyel, I want to apologize for slamming your head into the lockers. You see, you guys have been dickheads to me ever since the school year started-”

“And you wanted us to notice you-”

“You make me sound needy when you put it like that, Kahl.”

“Well, you are. You always want attention-”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, Kyle! God damn, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Kyle scoffed, “You obviously did mean to hurt me! What the fuck kind of apology was that?”

“It’s not a good one, I know.”

“You could have killed me! If I had hit my head any harder…”

Cartman turned away, smiled to himself, then turned back to Kyle with a straight face, “I know that now. I don’t know if I could have lived with myself if I had killed my best friend.”

“You’re not my best friend,” Kyle said flatly.

“No, but you’re mine.”

“You’ve called Kenny your best friend before.”

“That’s… different. I’ve always felt that you and I understood each other better than most.”

“I’ve always felt like I’m Clarice Starling and you’re Hannibal Lecter, to be honest.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean! That’s my favorite movie.”

“Figures,” Kyle looked down at his feet. He didn’t want to admit that Cartman was slightly right. “I guess I kind of accept your shit apology.”

“I wasn’t looking for acceptance. Just wanted to say my piece. So I’m gonna go now.” Cartman slid off the couch and started towards the door.

“Are you going home?”

“No, I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“I’ll come too. I need air. Mostly because of your breath.” Kyle went for his coat and shoes. Cartman grimaced but inside, he couldn’t be happier. Kyle had reacted the exact way he wanted him to.

“Oh, shouldn’t you go back to bed?” Cartman suggested in an empty, insincere voice.

Kyle pulled on his staple orange jacket and his (now washed) green hat. “We’re going to the corner store and you’re getting me a slice of pizza because you fucking owe me.”

“Buy you a pizza just to watch you pick off all the pepperoni?” Cartman twisted the knob and opened the door. He let Kyle out first.

“I’ll give you the pepperoni.”

“Oh, what a deal.”

They walked in silence for a minute before Kyle spoke: “Cartman, I’m sorry that we’ve been ignoring you, but I know that you know why.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Kyle stopped walking. Cartman continued for a moment before he realized Kyle wasn’t at his side. He looked behind him. Kyle stood with his hands in his jacket pockets. One of the buttons on his pajama top was missing. The late morning sun glowed over his face, making his dark green eyes a bit brighter. From a distance, you couldn’t see how tired he looked. “Do you really, Cartman?”

“What do you mean?”

“Things are changing, Cartman. We’re changing too… but you, you keep doing the same shit over and over again. You’re too much effort to be around anymore. It’s draining.”

Cartman looked down at the concrete. He still had time. He could go back. Take the suspension and move on. Deal with more years of only God knows what. He looked up at Kyle’s sunken face. “What I mean to say is, if you want to be a part of our friend group again, you have to cut that shit out.”

Cartman nodded slightly. He knew what he wanted to do. He approached Kyle and took his hand, “I want to show you something that I found this morning.”

 

…

 

Cartman led Kyle into his backyard with a clammy hand. A few bangs and rustles echoed from the shed.

“What the hell?”

“Look look look,” Cartman let go of him when they reached the door. He undid the lock and pulled Kyle in a little closer.

“What the hell is in there?” Kyle squirmed at Cartman’s arm around his waist.

“We got a dog,” Cartman replied with a smirk.

“Why is it in the shed?!”

“You’ll see,” Cartman moved his arm back and opened his palm over Kyle’s spine. With one swift motion, he opened the door with his other hand and pushed Kyle inside. The raccoon glided across the floor and pounced.

“WAIT!” Kyle cried. Cartman slammed the door and latched the lock. Kyle pounded on the door. “LET ME OUT! CART-” Kyle screamed. Cartman heard his body thump against the heavy wooden door. “HELP ME! PLEASE! IT’S BITING ME!”

Cartman backed away slowly, away from the sounds of the raccoon’s hissing and Kyle’s screaming and crying.

 

…

 

Stan and Kenny sat on the couch, a bowl of pretzels in between them. Stan was on his third attempt at trying to survive _Dead Rising 2._

“You still need to get Zombrex for Katey,” commented Kenny before his hand dove into the bowl. He had let his hood fall back. He hadn’t had a haircut in months, and the blond tendrils covered his shoulders.

Stan shook his head while cutting a zombie in half with a chainsaw, “Fuck Katey.”

“You’re going to feel bad if she dies.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You cried that one time you found a dead bee in my driveway. You will.”

Stan continued thumbing the controller. He had called the Broflovski house earlier to see if Kyle wanted to stay over, but his mom said he was still sleeping. One of the zombies glomped him, and soon he was drowning in a mass of them. The screen faded and the game restarted. “God damn it! I guess it’s your turn, Kenny.” He turned to hand the controller over.

Kenny was unresponsive. His eyes were rolled in the back of his head. Stan dropped the controller and grabbed his shoulder, “Kenny?” Stan knew that Kenny was prone to seizures, but he had never seen him completely still like this. Kenny’s mouth was open and drooling, a bit of pretzel dust puffed out when he exhaled. “Kenny?” Stan repeated. He shoved Kenny and he fell over like a tree stump. “Ken?!” Stan grabbed a glass of water and splashed it on Kenny’s face. Kenny jolted.

“Where’s Kyle?” Kenny sat up, rubbed his eyes, and scanned the room.

“Huh? Kyle’s at home sleeping, dude,” Stan gripped the glass, staring at his friend’s red, distorted face, “are you okay?”

“No. Yes. Kyle’s not home.”

“Uh, what?”

“Something is wrong… I think Kyle needs our help.”

 

…

 

Cartman stood numbly in the wet grass, listening to Kyle’s screams for help. Keenly, he sensed the presence of someone behind him. Stan and Kenny were running towards him. Cartman lunged at Stan and grabbed his wrist, gripping so tightly that he could feel the little bones grinding together.

“Ow! Cartman, let go!”

Kenny darted towards Kyle’s screams. Cartman kicked him in the ankle, causing Kenny to drop. Stan twisted his arm in an effort to release himself Cartman raised his other elbow and plunged it into the bridge of Stan’s nose. Stan went down, covering his face with his hands. Cartman delivered a swift kick to his ribs to make sure he stayed there.

“Stan!” Kenny screeched. Cartman towered over him. Kenny kicked upwards, his foot plummeted into Cartman’s stomach, pushing him back. Kenny rolled over and went for the shed again. Cartman started after him, but a wheezing Stan grabbed onto his pant leg. He fell down onto his stomach.

“Fucking let go, Stan!”

Stan said nothing because he couldn’t, he just held on to Cartman’s ankles as tightly as he could. He breathed hard and shakily.

Kenny yanked the locked off the door. It was still set on the correct combination, he was relieved to see. He swung the door open and the raccoon emerged into broad daylight. It gave one last hiss at the boys before scampering away.

Blood swelled over the concrete floor. Kenny saw his friend’s body sprawled out, dirty, cut open like a cadaver. Kyle groaned softly. His eyes were glazed over. Kenny sucked in his breath and reached for Kyle’s top half. He dragged him out into the yard.

Liane opened the sliding glass door, “Eric, I bought you a- Oh my God!”

Stan let go of Cartman and crawled over to Kyle and Kenny. Kyle’s head was in Kenny’s lap. Most of his clothing had been torn- there were several cuts and scrapes on his chest and arms. There was a gushing bite wound under his ear.

Liane flipped open her phone and dialed 911. Cartman sat up.

“Don’t fucking come over here!” Kenny screamed at him.

“Kyle?” Stan whispered. He put his arms around his best friend’s torso, rested his head just lightly on him. A twinge of blood transferred to Stan’s cheek. “Kyle… please hang on… don’t go… I love you.”

The unmistakable warble of sirens was heard down the street. Kyle looked up, tried to breathe in small, steady breaths. He felt himself going, going until the sky turned black.

  


_April 29, 2017_

 

He was dreaming about walking in the dark again. In these dreams, he can’t see anything but he can feel the black surroundings close in on him. His heartbeat thickly pounds in his chest until it bursts and coats the inside of his ribcage with clotted blood.

He chokes.

Tries to reach inside himself.

The stomach turns.

They always end up like this, and he wakes up alone, vulnerable to the dark bedroom and whatever can take shape in the dark. This time, however, someone was watching him.

Someone was there for him when he woke up.

“Hey,” he was squeezing his hand, “Hey, Kyle, are you okay?”

Kyle Broflovski, 17 years old and in love, weakly looked up into his boyfriend’s face. His neck was stiff. His other arm was locked at a backward angle. “Yeah, I think so.” They had been studying in Stan’s room all Saturday morning until Kyle passed out in the middle of writing an essay on _Othello_ , which he tactfully titled, “White Ewe Tuppin’.” A couple of empty paper cups from Tweek Bros. lay about him like knocked over chess pieces. Caffeine can’t always replace sleep.

“You were all twitchy and shit, dude. And you’re sweating. Were you having that dream again?” Stan Marsh asked. He watched as Kyle moved onto his back and stared at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes. The fluorescent lighting made Kyle look paler than he already was.

“Yes,” he replied, “but it gets darker every time I dream it. I can't tell if my subconscious wants me to be Lara Croft and explore caves, or if there’s some faction of my subconscious that’s revealing itself to me now that I’m on the brink of adulthood…”

“Kyle-”

“Or maybe I’m going to die-”

“-don’t you dare say that.” Stan was holding both of Kyle’s hands now.

“What if in the afterlife, coffins are like… infinite? But you’re just doomed to walk platforms of darkness?”

“Platforms of Darkness sounds like a gay metal band.”

“Stan. Why do you keep referring to things as gay when you’ve had my dick in your mouth. Several times. I lost count after the first twenty times.”

Stan turned a special shade of coral-pink, “Fair enough.” He bit his bottom lip, then smiled. “But I think you’re being a little dramatic. You probably just have anxiety about graduating.”

“I hope that’s all it is. It’s been happening for months now. I just want it to stop.”

“It has to be,” said Stan. His eyes were sure. “I’m a little uneasy too. All we’ve ever known up until this point is school. But you tend to take these things to heart. It’ll be okay.” Kyle sat up and pulled Stan closer to him. “You have carpet imprints on your face,” Stan grazed his thumb across Kyle’s cheek.

“Yeah, why the hell did you let me sleep on the floor?” Kyle asked. His neck was still stiff. “Why didn’t you take me to your bed?”

“Dude, you’re like, a foot taller than me and you’re all muscle. How would you expect me to do that?”

“I don’t know… the power of love?” Kyle smiled.

“Oh, that’s just nice and cheesy.” Stan said. Still, he pulled Kyle in closer and kissed him. He felt Kyle’s hands instantly trailed up under his shirt, along his shoulder blades. Stan pulled away, his hands buried in Kyles auburn, slightly damp hair. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? Right now?” Kyle asked weakly. It never took him long to get lost in the heat of the moment.

“Yeah,” Stan stood up and ran to his dresser to get socks, “It’s a nice day and Sparky needs the exercise.”

“I thought we were going to do an exercise…” Kyle grumbled

Stan laughed. “My parents are home. Also, you’re loud.”

“I’m trying to be quieter…”

“No, don’t. I like to know when I’m doing a good job.”

Now it was Kyle’s turn to blush. It was true that Kyle had a tendency to be the vocal one, whereas Stan breathed heavily and whispered Kyle’s name in breathy coos. After another few seconds, Kyle turned over and pulled on his green Converse. The early evening sun spilled golden light all over the room and Kyle agreed, it was probably best to be outside for awhile. It would be a nice distraction, to be out in the world instead of stuck in his own mind. The thoughts of all these new chapters- graduation, college, entering the workforce- all of it chilled him. He knew he would be okay in the end, and they still had a month of high school left, but it was nerve-racking all the same. “ _One day at a time, Broflovski._ Kenny told him once, _you think so far ahead that you forget to be here in the present.”_ Kyle finished tying his shoes and turned back to his lover of almost five years. Stan was usually much more dramatic, but lately, he seemed happier. Ecstatic even.

“Stan, why aren’t you as nervous as I am?”

Stan was sitting on the bed now, lacing up his decrepit Adidas. “Because I can’t wait to get the fuck out of high school. As soon as we can, I want to move as far away as possible. The more names I forget, the better.” He said this almost all in one breath. It became clear to Kyle that he had thought about this a lot. Stan stood up and grabbed Sparky’s leash off the dresser.

Kyle stood up too. “Hopefully you won’t forget mine.” He hated when he blurted things like that. Something tugged in his chest whenever he had conversations with Stan about the future. The answers would always be obvious in Kyle’s favor- neither of them could imagine a future without the other. But Kyle liked the reassurance. No one was ever as honest with him as Stan was.

Stan approached him and placed his arms around Kyle’s shoulders. Kyle looked down and pressed his forehead against Stan’s.

Quietly, sincerely, Stan said: “I would never forget your name. I would never forget you at all.”

 

…

 

Kyle didn’t blame Stan very much for wanting to forget everyone. Being forced to spend seven hours a day with the same cluster of people for years can be aggravating. The people that you think you’ll be friends with forever turning into walking husks that you barely noticed anymore.

 _“People grow apart, bubbe,” Sheila Broflovski had told her son several times, “you’ll be very lucky if you and Stan even stay together after high school.”_ That comment always left a sting in Kyle’s chest. He never openly admitted that was worried that Stan would change his mind about him. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Stan was also keen to Kyle’s anxiety.

Bebe Stevens fell into the druggie crowd after Wendy Testaburger moved to France with her family. Kenny McCormick dropped out at the start of junior year to help his family start their auto-repair shop after the old one burned down. It was turning their luck around, but Stuart McCormick was always too drunk to actually show up to the shop, and Kenny was always stuck working. Tweek and Craig melded into their own private bubble. Almost never apart- they breathed each other and never interacted with anyone else.

“That can’t be healthy,” Kyle once commented, watching the couple isolate themselves in a back corner at Token’s birthday party.

“See? We’re already better than them!” said Stan, “at least we’re our own people!”

“It’s not a competition, Stan.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Stan was looking every which way about the room. Kyle held onto his arm, as he always did for Drunk Stan, “It’s not like there’s a gay competition.”

“Or gay Olympics,” said Kyle. He was a little buzzed himself. “Ooh, Gaylympics?”

Stan spit out the Fireball and Dr. Pepper combo he was drinking and they laughed together. All Butters overheard was “gay Olympics” and laughed too. He was still cool.

After the incident with Kyle and the rabid raccoon, Eric Cartman was sent to juvie. The concussion was brought into the jurisdiction as well. Kyle had to endure several painful shots in the arm. Most of the scars healed over, except for some tiny deep ones on his hands, a few larger ones on his chest, and the bite mark under his ear.

 

…

 

“Hey Dad, can you crack Kyle’s back? We’re about to go for a walk and he’s been sleeping on the floor.” Stan’s request echoed through the house. He started putting the leash on a dancing Sparky. Kyle immediately recoiled. He did not like the idea of being held by Randy Marsh, especially now that he was emerging from the kitchen with no shirt on.

“I can crack you, Kyle! My freelance chiropractor biz is really taking off-”

“It’s okay, Mr. Marsh, I”

“Though I haven’t done anyone yet that’s 6'1”, I guess you’ll be my first!”

“Please don’t say it like that,” Kyle said lowly. Stan was grinning, holding Sparky like a baby. “I’m really all right, Mr. Marsh.”

“It’ll take two seconds,” and with that, Randy was behind Kyle. He crossed his arms, mummy-style, and lifted him up and up until there was a symphony of cracks that Kyle had never felt before. He didn’t realize he was carrying so much tension.

“You enjoy that new spine now,” Randy was beaming.

 

…

 

“He’s cracked me before,” said Stan as soon as he shut his front door, “You know I’d never put you in danger.”

“I know… but he was shirtless, dude!”

“Oh, yeah. He was. I guess I don’t notice those things much anymore.”

“Lucky you.”

They made their way down the street and onto the path that led to Stark’s Pond, Sparky leading the way. Even though he was getting older, Sparky still acted like a puppy- charismatic and springy.

Kyle glanced at Stan to see that he was lost in thought. His face was serene, but his eyes were focused and unflinching, just staring in Sparky’s direction. Stan was also very beautiful. Any time he looked in his direction, it sent Kyle’s heart aflutter. His blue eyes varied between deep, royal shades to light mint depending on his mood. He a few chestnut-colored freckles on his nose and cheeks. His jawline could cut diamonds. He was letting his raven hair grow out a bit.

Kyle couldn’t help himself. “I love you.”

Stan looked over at him, wide-eyed. “What did I do?” he asked, even though he knew what Kyle was about to say. What Kyle would always say:

“You’re just so cute.”

“I’m not…”

“You really are.”

Stan just shook his head and smiled. They continued, occasionally kicking rocks in their path, or letting Sparky sniff random bushes.

“I love you, too,” Stan said finally. Kyle didn’t say anything. He smiled to himself, but he felt Stan’s brief gaze against his cheek just before they reached the pond. Sparky stretched out on the ground, his back legs splayed out behind him.

“There he goes, doing that ‘sploot’ thing again,” said Stan.

“Is that what it’s called? A sploot?”

Stan laughed, “Yeah, I think it’s just another way of cooling off his junk.”

“Can’t say that I blame him,” said Kyle. He was starting to feel normal again. Stan tied Sparky to a bench.

Kyle went to sit down. “It’s kind of weirdly hot outside today,” he said, “it’s only April-”

“Wait, Kyle!” Stan grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Hold on a second.”

“What?”

“I need to talk to you,” said Stan. He took Kyle’s hands in his. “I’ve been thinking for a long time about this,” his grip tightened slightly, “and I think we should talk about some stuff.”

“Like what? Is something wrong?”

Stan just shook his head. He looked like he wanted to speak- his mouth opened but no words came out. He looked worried.

“Stan, you’re scaring me.” Kyle almost wanted to take his hands away. He was terrified. “Just be honest… are you mad at me or something?”

Stan buried his fingers in Kyle’s hair and met his mouth an intense kiss, slowly and warmly, as if he hadn’t seen Kyle in years. Stan placed another soft peck on Kyle’s lips before leaning back, their arms linked together at each other’s torsos.

“I’m like, the opposite of mad. Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know. Being me, I guess.”

“But you’re amazing.”

Kyle shook his head. “What did you want to talk about, Stan?”

Stan drew away slightly, “It was actually something I wanted to ask.” He dropped down to one knee. Kyle’s cheeks flushed. He felt like he was breathing through a straw. Stan pulled a simple gold band from out of his pocket. “Kyle Broflovski, will you make me the happiest fucker in Colorado and be my husband?”

 

…

 

“That’s amazing…” Kyle Broflovski, eight years old and genuinely impressed, took off the earmuffs that Cartman had plopped on his head before playing the brown note on an unsuspecting mailman.

“I told you guys!” Cartman was practically jumping out of his own skin with excitement.

Stan turned to Kyle, “Dude, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That they should bring back _Chicago Hope_ for another season, totally!” Cartman suggested.

“No!” Stan was hyped, “that we could use that brown noise to get back at those asshole New Yorker kids!”

Kyle smiled deviously, “Yeah, dude!”

 

…

 

Kyle realized that this was the first time, in a very long time, that he didn’t agree with Stan.

“I wanted to wait until your birthday to do this, but the ring finally came yesterday and I just couldn’t wait.” He looked up at Kyle, shaking slightly, but purely adrenalize by the moment.

“I don’t know.” Kyle finally managed to choke out.

“Wait, what?” Stan’s face looked as if someone shattered a sheet of glass all over it.

“Stan, I love you, but-” he pulled Stan back up so that they were eye level, “I think you’re doing this because you’re afraid. I’m afraid too, but we can’t just latch on to each other because we’re scared we’re going to grow apart or something…”

A switch turned in the form of Stan’s face. His eyes started watering. “I’m not afraid of that, Kyle. That’s what _you’re_ afraid of. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I do know that I want to be with you until I die.”

“Stan, please it’s just not the right time. Please don’t be upset.” He tried to hug Stan but he stepped back.

“Don’t tell me to not be upset, Kyle!” Stan now had tears streaming down his cheeks. “Have the last four years meant nothing to you?”

“What the fuck? What does that have to do with anything? They’ve meant _everything_ to me… Can we just go home and talk about this? You’ve never brought up marriage before. It feels kind of random.”

“I just… I don’t know if I can keep standing here,” Stan started towards Sparky, who was oblivious to the matrimonial turmoil, but regarded Stan with loyal concern. Kyle’s stomach dropped and his throat constricted, rendering him hoarse.

“Stan, are you actually listening to me? We can talk about this…” Kyle said weakly. He didn’t like the feeling of losing control. The feeling of watching everything blow up in his face.

“I think you’ve said enough,” said Stan, leading Sparky away.

“I _have_ said enough. All you’ve done is blow up on me!”

“All I’ve done, all I have _ever_ done is love you, Kyle!”

“Oh, look, now who’s being dramatic?”

“Whatever!” He threw the ring down in front of Kyle, a small spout of dirt jumped at the impact. Stan walked off, leaving Kyle alone staring at his feet. “I’ll call you when you can come get your stuff… but I’m sorry. I just can’t.” Stan had stopped at the mouth of the park to shout back at Kyle. He looked over at Stan’s sulking form.

“Stan?”

“What?”

“Do you hate me?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Stan…” (why are you doing this Stan)

(i don’t know. i can’t feel anything

i feel everything now)

“If I hated you, this wouldn’t be hurting so much.”

“Stan, don’t leave like this. Please.”

“No, Kyle. I think we’re done here,” Stan huffed and turned away.

Kyle wanted to run after him, but his legs felt like weights, anchoring him to the soil. He picked up the ring and studied it, turning it over in his open palm. Kyle gasped softly- “SBF” had been engraved on the inside.

That familiar darkness crept in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Destroyer" by Phantogram- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grj0tCEcX94


	2. Lucifer, whispering

Kyle lied on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes moved across the different posters taped up there. One of them was for Strawberry Migraine- they had been signing things at the merch table after the show. The memory of Stan holding his hand so tightly… it wasn’t that long ago, but so much had happened since then. 

He reached for his phone- he didn’t hear any notification sound- but he couldn’t stop checking it:

 

**Hey Stan… I am so sorry about today. I know that you put your heart on the line today. I was wrong to react the way that I did. I’ve never second-guessed wanting to be with you forever. I’m just scared. You know that I let my anxiety get the best of me sometimes…**

**Please call me soon. I want to work this out. I love you. So much.**

 

Kyle reread that last message he had sent hours ago over and over before sighing heavily. He had used “me” and “I” too much.  
Of course, there was no response from Stan, it didn’t even look like the message had been opened yet. Kyle opened up the Facebook app and went to Stan’s page. It still said “In a Relationship with Kyle Broflovski,” but it didn’t mean anything. Stan could still break up with Kyle if he wanted to.  
Soft music played downstairs. Kyle’s parents always played music they cooked together. The tears came flowing even harder at the realization that he would never know what that was like. Instead, he saw himself dying alone.

He checked his phone for what felt like the 156th time. Still no response.  
Gerald knocked on the door, “Kyle, we need to talk. You’ve been in your room for too long.”  
“Please, don’t.” Kyle’s voice was barely a decibel above a croak. Gerald came in any way. Kyle groaned.  
“What’s going on with you today?” He sat down at Kyle’s computer desk. Kyle was now sitting cross-legged on his bed, zoned in on his phone. Gerald sighed, “can you put your phone down, please? I’m not trying to direct this conversation to the top of your head.”  
Reluctantly, Kyle placed his phone face-down on the nightstand, an old habit from when he and Stan first started dating and didn’t want his parents to know yet. Stan loved to send filthy messages sometimes. “Stan and I had a fight today. It was... pretty intense.”  
“You guys have fought before, it’ll be alright.”

“I don’t think so…”

“Kyle, your mother and I have argued a lot over the years, and sometimes, I would feel like there was no way we could see through it… but it’s going to pass. If you’re as good of friends as you always say you are, it’ll be okay. You have to believe that.”  
Kyle looked down at his folded hands. They were so pale that they almost looked dead. There were splotches of violet on his fingers. His skin was clammy all over.  
“Dad… I don’t know for sure, but I feel like we broke up.”  
“Oh. Why?”  
“I don’t know. Something about it just felt… final. I can’t really explain.”  
“Well, just give him some space. There’s not much you can do logically if you’re all worked up like this.”  
“I was thinking about going over there actually-”  
“NO, that will make you look like a psycho. Just give him space. Things may not be as bad as you think,” Gerald started to rise, “Come down and have dinner with us. It’ll be good for you to get away from the phone, you can trust me on that. But think about what I said… don’t jump to conclusions just yet.”  
Kyle did think over what his father had said. But the more he thought about it, the heavier his heart became, and the overwhelming feeling of dread fanned out in his belly and up through his spine.  
  
  
  


 

_ April 30, 2017 _

_ 12:57 am _

_ Colorado Juvenile Detention Center _

 

Colorado’s delinquent department was supposed to be a place of meditation, education, and discipline. Most kids were out in a few months, maybe a year.

Eric Cartman was the exception.

His behavioral patterns had grown worse over the years, forcing him to stay confined in those concrete walls. He didn’t know it yet, but as soon as he turned 18, he was going to be transferred to a high-security federal prison. It was clear to the staff, as well as Cartman’s lawyer, that someone deeply steeped in treachery as he could not be molded into a reformed citizen. He could snap at any moment, and his mood always turned violent.

Chakwas was on the night shift, and he always paid more attention to Cartman than the rest of the guards. Cartman would have to be as quiet as possible. 

His cell was very minimal. People can tell a lot about someone by what they keep in their personal space. He didn’t want anyone to know anything about him. The other inmates didn't even know why Cartman was there. He was fine with it. After being sentenced, Cartman had learned to thrive in isolation.

He spent most of his time in the library, reading and writing. He read every book in there except for one fly away book- a small handbook on Demonology. Cartman wasn’t unfamiliar with the occult and suspected that reading it would be like reading the back of a shampoo bottle. Just something to do. 

But he never knew there were so many of the monstrous beings, having roots in so many different cultures. He didn’t want to make anyone suspicious by checking it out multiple times, so he read it over and over, taking notes and drawing sketches.

Now he was ready to play.

Everything was embedded in the fluff of his mattress: a small plastic straw, cardboard, a flattened milk carton, a mini-flashlight (stolen off the belt of a rookie guard), and a razor.

A Ouija board would be the easiest way to do it. He chided himself for being predictable, but there was no other choice. Deal with the cards you’ve been dealt. 

With the flashlight pointed across the floor, he folded the milk carton into the shape of a planchette. Tore the unnecessary edges off. Then he reached for the razor. It hovered over the soft underbelly of his arm, hesitant. No other choice. He pushed the razor into his skin and with an uncomfortable grunt, brought it down. The blood was darker than he expected, not like how Kyle’s was. He used the straw as a quill and started the alphabet: “A… B… C…”

Footsteps approached. It was Chakwas. Cartman clicked off the flashlight and quickly pushed his supplies underneath his bed and climbed in, securing his bleeding arm underneath him. He stared at the wall. Chakwas’s dim flashlight swayed around in the halls outside, then disappeared. 

“Fuck,” Cartman whispered to himself. The blood was drying already. He tumbled quietly back down to the floor and began working again. This was going to take awhile. But it would be worth it. Later:

“8… 9… 0...”

Then “Yes.” “No.” “Goodbye.”

He looked down at his gruesome handiwork. 

Now all that was left to do was use it, and see what he could make happen.

  
  
  
  


_ April 30, 2017 _

_ 2:03 am _

 

Stan Marsh walked along the road with his hands in his jean pockets. He had gone home, fed Sparky, had a silent dinner with his parents, went to his room, thought about texting Kyle, decided against it, laid in bed and cried, tried to sleep, turned on  _ The Office  _ to have some background noise, cried because of Jim and Pam, tried to sleep again, failed, and now here he was, walking alone downtown with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. He knew Kyle had been texting him. He just couldn’t think of how to respond or if he even wanted to read the messages in the first place. Eventually, he would have to say something. He said he would.

A pair of headlights bobbed along the road towards him. Stan made out the shape of a Jeep, but it wasn’t Kyle’s Jeep. It slowed down and stopped by Stan. Jimmy Valmer leaned out of the passenger-side window.

“Hey, b-b-b-bitch. Want a r-r-ride?”

“Not if I have to do what I did last time,” replied Stan. He looked over at Token in the driver’s seat, to Heidi, Bebe, Clyde all crowded in the back, looking concerned. “I hate Monopoly,” he added.

“Where are you going, Stan?” Token leaned over Jimmy’s lap, “Do you need a ride?”

“Not going anywhere. Just needed a walk.”

Clyde asked, “Where’s Kyle?”

“Oh. Probably sleeping… he wouldn’t want to be out this late anyway.”

Heidi locked on to Stan’s welling eyes. “What’s wrong, Stan?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re crying…” Heidi and Bebe both exited the car and hugged him. They reeked of weed.

“What happened?” Bebe was rubbing his arm, “Did you guys break up?”

“I… I don’t know. It felt like it. But I don’t know.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” offered Token. “We can talk about it over a bowl. You look like you could use it.”

“And you know Token gets the best shit,” chimed Clyde.

“T-t-t-there’s always r-r-room for you, S-Stan.”

“I appreciate it, but I just need some air. I’ll go home and sleep it off after this.”

They all nodded, hummed their goodbyes, and left Stan once more. He breathed a sigh of relief and headed towards Stark’s. He didn’t want to go back there but he didn’t know where else to go.

Stan decided he’d just try to enjoy the walk, despite the circumstances. It was quiet, which is rare for a place like South Park. All of the day-to-day distractions make it hard to focus.

The entrance to Stark’s Pond became visible over the horizon. He crossed the street and entered the dark woods.

Admittedly, the trees wigged him out a little. Their twisted figures and bent limbs took on more intimidating forms in the dark. They seemed to be whispering. A cloud of whispers wafting around him, pushing him in deeper. A wind chime softly echoed. Sometimes people hung them up even though they weren’t supposed to. He followed the sound to a small circular clearing, looked around. 

He replayed in front of him what had happened several hours before. He saw ghostly versions of himself and Kyle, yelling at each other. He shook his head. The vision went away.

_ Maybe we should wait,  _ he thought,  _ I did overreact… _

He knew he put Kyle in a position that was unfair. He had a point when he said they’ve never talked seriously about marriage before. Maybe it was all too much at once.

Stan thought about the Strawberry Migraine concert. The way he held his hand, how he put his head on his shoulder… how he wanted to pin Kyle down right there on the floor.

The whispers swelled again. A bitter chill slithered up his spine. Stan winced. He wanted to leave, but his feet wouldn’t move. They seemed almost cemented down. He twisted himself, tried to at least fall back. Failed. He  _ really  _ couldn’t move.

His right boot began sinking into the earth. Then his left one started sinking too.

“What the fuck!” Stan moved his hips side to side, trying to thrust himself out. “No!” The dirt was climbing up to him. It was at his knees now. “Fuck! Help! Someone help me!” He screamed. He wiggled frantically. It made its way up to his chest. He raised his arms and tried to find something to grab on to. He sunk faster.

It was up to his neck now.

“Help!” Came Stan’s strangled cry. It covered his chin. “Kyle!”

The lips of the earth pulled his head down, letting his white fingertips jut out above the surface before swallowing them too. 

…

 

Kyle woke up, breathing heavily. He immediately checked his phone. No messages, still. He went to the bathroom and cleared the cold sweat away from his face. His lips were pale. His eyes puffy. 

He had dreamt about being in the dark again, but he was following Stan’s voice. The sound of Stan’s weeping carried over to Kyle, but he couldn’t call out to him. It was an endless loop of looking and listening, not being able to speak. When Stan did finally appear before him, he was a mangled corpse, opened and dissected; and the knife was in Kyle’s hand. 

He crawled back into bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin. He wished Stan was there. 

For good measure, he checked his phone again. Still nothing. He opened up his texts and started thumbing away:

 

**Stan… I hope you’re okay.**

He backspaced.

**Stan… please be alright. Please, please be okay.**

**I miss you so much.**

 

It was 3:06 am.

He put the phone down and reached into his nightstand drawer. He pulled out the engagement band and slide it on to his ring finger. It fit perfectly, of course. 

Kyle Broflovski, 17 years old. Distraught. Anxious. Still in love.

He turned over and closed his eyes, clutching his hand to his heart.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pro Memoria" by Ghost- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPLFQpApMAg


	3. Rubber Ocean

_ June 3, 2017 _

 

**HAVE YOU SEEN ME?**

**Name:** Stanley Marsh

**Age:** 17

**Description:** Blue eyes, medium-length black hair, approximately 5’5” in height, and weighs about 140 lbs. Has a paw print tattoo on the inside of left wrist. If you know the whereabouts of Stanley please notify the South Park Police.

 

Kyle didn’t have the heart to tell Sharon that it might be better to create a missing person ad on Facebook to reach more people, but he also figured that not everyone uses social media, so, why not? But he hated putting up these flyers as if Stan were a missing dog. He also didn’t want to believe that this was his current reality.  
_I’ve done nothing but pick at the skin around my fingernails and run my thumb over his ring- turn it around and around my finger hoping he’ll appear in my doorway perfectly in once piece and he’ll say “I’m sorry, babe. I still love you. I won’t go away again.”_

He sat in his white Jeep Wrangler, holding the flyer in front of the steering wheel. The photo that Sharon used was Stan’s senior photo. His hair had been combed back and he was wearing a tie that was too skinny. His dimples were edited out. To Kyle, it didn’t look like Stan at all, at least, not the way he knew him. Stan hardly ever combed his hair and there were always holes in the armpits of his tee shirts. The Stan that he knew also hated having his picture taken, and it definitely showed in that glossy, stylized photo.  
He put the flyer back on the stack on the passenger seat, then lit a cigarette. He only did it when the stress was too much to be coped with naturally. 10-year old Kyle would have been disappointed.  
That flyer had missed some things… it could never capture the way he laughed. How much he loved animals, how he always smelled like oranges for some reason…

_ I need to stop thinking about him in the past tense.  _ He took a long inhale and let the smoke billow out of his nostrils as tears rolled down his freckled cheeks.

 

…

 

The paw print tattoo wasn’t the only scarred skin on Stan. When they were 16, Kyle went through a phase where he wanted to be a tattoo artist, despite not having much artistic aptitude. He could draw some things, but he had just liked the idea of having elaborate sleeves and wearing muscle tanks, just inking away all day. When he got his hands on a stick-and-poke kit, he locked himself in his room and immediately went to work. He chose a killer whale. A killer whale on the very top of his left thigh. More meat there, he figured, less pain.  
It wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be, and when Stan saw it, he asked for one too.  
“You really want me to tattoo you?” Kyle asked. The two of them were in bed. Stan was snuggled into Kyle’s neck, his warm breath gently caressing it.  
“Yeah, but I don’t want a killer whale,” he said, “I want a humpback.”  
“I just gave you a humpback,” Kyle turned over to look at him.  
Stan rolled his eyes, pulled Kyle in closer, “you know what the fuck I mean.”  
“Where do you want it?”  
“Same as you, but on the other side so when we stand together sometimes, the whales will be together. Just don’t tell my parents.”  
Kyle ran his hand through Stan’s raven hair and kissed the tip of his nose, “you’re my whale.”  
“What?” Stan laughed, “What does that even mean?”  
“It means… I don’t know… you’re cute.” He couldn’t think of loving anything or anyone more than he loved Stan at that moment, or ever since then.  
“I’m not…” Stan protested.  
“You really are.” Kyle pulled him into a deep kiss. He climbed on top of him.  
“Kyle!”

  
…

  
“Kyle! Hello?”  
Kyle snapped out of his daydream to see a familiar mass of blonde hair and blue eyes.  
“Oh, hi Kenny.”

Kenny scratched at his face. It was obvious he had just shaved. He smelled of Old Spice and a little bit like weed. His hair was grown out again and pulled back into a ponytail with a few small braids. He was wearing his  _ Invader Zim  _ gauges. Sheila hated the fact that Kenny stretched his ears, but Kyle thought the look suited him. 

“I thought you quit smoking,” he said.   
“Would it be cliche to say that I did, but the smoking didn’t quit me?”   
“Yes. And fucking lame.”   
“Oh. Then I don’t have an answer for you… uh, why are you here?”   
“I wanted to check on you.”   
“Just text me?”   
“It’s not the same. Our best friend is missing, Kyle. I think that requires some personal attention.”

Kyle just nodded and took another inhale. He pressed his palm into his thigh. Rubbed his wrist into his jeans. He hoped Kenny would go away. But Kenny stayed put, pressed into the driver’s side door.  
“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” Kenny reached in and playfully pinched Kyle’s arm. Kyle frowned. His cigarette was now a stub. He pushed it into the ashtray and watched forlornly as the last bit of smoke rose and disappeared into the air. 

“What, are you a vampire now?”  
Kenny shrugged, “Feels like it sometimes.”  
“Yeah, okay. You can get in.”  
“Grazie,” Kenny replied sarcastically, emphasizing the “r.” He sounded like an Italian Tony the Tiger.  
“Whoa,” Kenny had already opened the passenger door. He gripped the flyers in his calloused fingers.  
“Doesn’t look like him, does it?”  
“No, not really,” Kenny pulled himself into the car seat, still studying the image. “No,” he said again.  
“No,” Kyle echoed him, though he sounded defeated. Helpless.  
“Are you supposed to put these up?”  
“Yeah,” he reached into the center console and pulled out a water bottle. The cheap plastic crinkled in his hands.  
“Want some help?” Kenny asked, “I have time.”  
“You do? I’m shocked.” Kyle took a huge swig of lukewarm water. Kenny said nothing, but his lip twitched slightly. “Sorry,” Kyle said abruptly, “I know you do your best.”  
“Forget about it… it’s not a big deal.”  
After a pause, Kyle said, “I think we should go outside of town. Stan would know better than to stick around here if he didn’t want to be found. So, I doubt that he’s anywhere near here. Especially with how long he’s been missing.”  
“Denver?”  
“Maybe. Maybe some other places too.”  
Kyle started the Jeep. The clock radio read 10:37 am. “We better start now, then.”  
“Hi-yo, silver,” Kenny mumbled.

 

…

 

After a couple hours of driving and stopping, and driving again, they ended up at the Rose Mall, an outdoor mall that didn’t have many stores, but more fountains and benches. High-class citizens and their pampered dogs were everywhere. But most importantly, there were community boards. They only contained advertisements and posters for local events, but Kenny managed to charm the mall director, a tall woman in a floral blouse that reminded Kyle of his grandma’s curtains, into letting them post Stan’s picture.  
“My stomach is hurting for some reason,” Kyle groaned as they walked past an artisan soap shop.  
Kenny put a hand on Kyle’s elbow, “Did you eat today?”  
“Yeah. I had an apple at breakfast.”  
“That’s not enough. Not for a whole day.”  
“Food has no taste anymore. Can we sit down?”  
They sat down on a mahogany bench, across from a couple, who were on their phones.  
“I don’t think I’ve eaten a full meal since Stan went missing. I just pick at the food. Sometimes I don’t eat at all,” Kyle embraced himself and leaned forward. There was a dead bee at his feet.  
“If you don’t eat, it’s going to make your anxiety worse.”  
“I know. But I’m too depressed to do anything. All I’ve been doing really is sleeping. I just want to know where he is. Not knowing… not being able to find him to apologize… It’s killing me, Kenny.”  
“Apologize? For what? What happened?”  
Kyle was silent. A strong breeze blazed through them. Kyle shook his head.  
“Stan wanted to get married.”  
“So?”  
“So, he proposed to me.”  
“Oh. Wow.”  
“Yeah. And I didn’t know how to process it, I suppose. My response wasn’t what he expected or wanted, so he left. And I haven’t seen him since. All of this feels like it’s my fault.”  
“It’s not your fault, Kyle.”  
“I think it is…”  
“It’s not. I know you don’t want to hear this, but, you’re not responsible for him and the decisions he makes. You can’t control him, or get inside his head or whatever.”  
“Ken… I’m worried that he may have hurt himself.”  
The couple across from them were still on their phones, but it was evident that they were turned in on Kenny and Kyle’s conversation.  
“I hope that he hasn’t,” Kenny sighed. “We’ll find him, Kyle, okay? Who knows when, but we will.”  
Kyle couldn’t muster anything besides a quiet, “yeah.”  
“Can I ask you something?”  
“What?”  
“Do you want to marry Stan?”  
“Someday, yeah. When the right time comes.”  
“In my experience,” Kenny leaned forward so he could see Kyle’s face, “there’s no such thing as the right time.”  
Kyle didn’t look at him. He concentrated on the bee. It still retained its shape, no one had stepped on it yet. Not yet. “I think about it every single day. That last time. I could have done anything differently. I got in the way of my own heart. I’m always locking myself from happiness,” Kyle rocked slightly back and forth, “And now he’s gone. Probably dead. Because of me.”  
“Stop saying that, Kyle. You have to stop blaming yourself,” Kenny stood up and pulled Kyle up with him. “It’s going to distract you from actually finding him if you get too wrapped up in your own feelings.”  
Another gust of breeze channeled by them in the direction someone who was laughing so loudly that it bounced off the bricks of the shops. It sounded a bit like Stan’s laugh. Kyle looked into the distance and saw a mass of black hair about forty feet away, attached to a body that had its back to him.  
“Kyle, I know what you’re thinking… don’t…”  
_Same build, same laugh_ , Kyle thought, _I don’t want to get my hopes up, but…_ __  
Kyle took off running, leaving Kenny bewildered. His Converse pounded against the concrete. A few people stopped and looked. Kyle grabbed the boy’s shoulder.  
“Stan?”

 _No, it wouldn’t be that easy._  
“Can I help you?” The boy asked. Not a boy. A man. An older man.  
Kyle immediately retracted his grip. “I thought you were my boyfriend.”  
“Uh. Nope,” the man said, amused. Then he saw the grave expression on Kyle’s face. “Sorry,” he added.  
“Do you need help, young man?” A woman emerged into Kyle’s field of vision. _The stranger’s wife?_ _  
_ “N-no…”

“Kyle!” Kenny jogged up behind him, only slightly out of breath.  
“My stomach…” Kyle started to double over.  
“What?”  
“I-I think I’m going to puke…”  
“There’s a bathroom by the Skechers store, over there,” the woman pointed.  
Kyle took off, once more leaving Kenny behind.  
“Um. Too much to drink, I guess,” he said to the couple.  
“Really? Tall guy… must have had a lot then. Make sure he gets home safely,” the man put his hands on his hips while the woman nodded.  
“Will do,” Kenny pointed finger guns at them, “Excuse me.”  
He turned on his heel and left.

 

…

 

Kyle launched himself into the first available stall and heaved. Painfully. Burts of stinging fire, the worst kind of warmth. Then it was over. He wiped the excess saliva from the bottom of his lip. Looked into the toilet. Kyle hadn’t vomited since he was a child, but he knew what to expect. This, however, this was different.  
Drenched clumps of soil filled up the bowl. A few earthworms lazily wriggled and pulsed in the Earthy mass. Kyle blinked. Once. Twice.

 _Did that seriously just come out of me?_ The restroom door opened. Kenny’s work boots clunked on the marble flooring.  
“Kyle? You okay? What stall are you in?”  
“I’m okay,” replied Kyle. Quite dryly, he added, “Don’t come in the stall though, it’s really gross.”  
_I should tell Kenny… No… I can’t. How do I even know this is real? How do I know I’m not dreaming?_ “God damn, dude. Flush it down.” Kenny was right outside the stall. Kyle ignored him and reached down into the soil.  
_What?_  
He scooped some out and sifted through, felt the rough, tiny pieces of-  
_Rope?_  
_Rope, worms, and soil?_ __  
“Death,” Kyle whispered, involuntarily. As if someone else was controlling his mouth.  
“What?” Kenny opened the door a tinge. Kyle didn’t have time to lock it before upchucking.  
Kyle said nothing, just sucked in his breath. He was feeling dizzy.  
“Kyle, come on. We need to leave. Now.”  
“Okay, mom.” Kyle finally flushed the toilet and stood up to face Kenny.  
“Holy fuck.”  
“What?”  
“Dude, you look like someone strangled you…”

 

_ December 4, 2015 _

The tattoos weren’t only scarred skin on Stan.

“ _ Your ankles make me want to party…” _

“Haha, what?”

Stan and Kyle had been studying for their mid-term exams. Stan was stretched out on the Marsh’s living room couch while Kyle sat in the armchair, hunched over a foldable table. The words in his Biology textbook were beginning to blur, so he welcomed the distraction from Stan.

“This poem reminds me of you, Ky,” Stan was perusing  _ Mayakovsky’s Revolver  _ by Matthew Dickman. He continued: “ _ Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing.” _

“That’s… fairly direct,” Kyle quipped.

“Ooh, ooh. This part ESPECIALLY reminds me of you:  _ Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place-” _

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Kyle threw one of his several pencils at him.

“Why do you have  _ Hello Kitty _ pencils?”

“A PENCIL IS A PENCIL, STAN.”

Stan just giggled and continued reading the poem in silence, twirling the sparkling pink pencil in his fingers. He finished with a soft ‘hm’ and started flipping back to the beginning of the book.

“You’re not going to read them in chronological order?”

“Reading them in chronological order would imply that I read each one the time it was written. I don’t have that information, Kyle. I also can’t account for how many drafts each specific poem went through, or how it was determined to be finished.”

“You sound like me now.”

“You rub off on me.”

“That’s true, considering how many crusty shirts I’ve seen on your bedroom floor,” Kyle smirked.

Stan rolled his eyes and smiled. “Look,” he said, “I just got this book and I want to cruise… non-linearly. I think that’s a word.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Yeah, but I think you like it.”

“Read me the whole thing.”

“The same poem?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me find it again…  _ Your ankles make me want to party…” _

Stan continued reading as Kyle crept over to the couch and sat on his lap. Stan put his hand on the small of Kyle’s back without taking his eyes off of the page.

_ “Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey…” _

Kyle took Stan’s arm and put it on his lap, started gently caressing his wrist, pushing the sweater sleeve down. Stan gasped. Stopped reciting.

“What’s wrong?”

“Kyle, don’t…”

“What-”

And then he felt it. The striated skin. Rough ribbons all the way down to his elbow. Kyle turned Stan’s arm up towards him and saw the scars. Some were fresh; they looked like they were about to bleed again.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Stan… why?”

“I just… I’ve been so stressed out lately and… I don’t know. It makes me feel better.”

Kyle said nothing. He blinked quickly, trying to not let Stan see the tears that were forming.

“I feel better after I do it,” Stan repeated. “Like… relief.”

“Stan, please,” Kyle said softly. He knew if he sounded even the least bit aggressive, Stan would recoil. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts when you do this?”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No, I’m far from mad.” He took Stan’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m scared. I’m terrified that one day you’ll go too far and I’ll lose you forever… Please, Stan, please. We need to get help for you. I want you to feel better.”

_ Darling, you’re my president; I want to get this right! _

…

Kyle vowed not to say anything to Kenny until he could figure out for sure if what he saw… what he felt, was real.  
“I’ll drive, I’ll drive,” Kenny had said. He practically tore the keys off of Kyle’s belt loop. “Lay down in the back if you have to.”

...

“I think we should go to urgent care. You look like hell. And you’re probably dehydrated as fuck.”  
Kyle couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fields as they drove by like he might see a body at any second.  
“Don’t take me to urgent care,” Kyle’s throat stung. “I just need to sleep.”  
“Are you absolutely sure?”  
Kyle said nothing, just nodded.  
“At least drink some of your water.”  
Kyle did as he was told and threw back what was left. The water was even hotter than before. Almost 200 degrees. Kyle immediately opened his mouth and let the searing water cascade over his chin and chest.  
“Holy fuck, holy fuck that’s hot!”  
“Shit- Kyle-”  
Kenny pulled into a random strip mall. The wavering streams in Kyle’s brain caused him to slump forward. He was losing consciousness, his vision fading in and out. A sewing needle disappearing and reappearing in the cloth. Then everything went dark.  
_Nowhere to go._

…

Kyle awoke to his face in Kenny’s shirt.  _ I wasn’t out that long… _

Kenny was carrying him into a tattoo parlor. A sweet blast of air conditioning hit the side of his face.  
“Oh my God,” a woman behind a desk jumped up when she saw Kenny struggling to open the door. “Do you need me to call 911?”  
“No,” Kenny sat Kyle down on a chair, breathing heavily. “Do you have pop? Or orange juice?”  
“Yes!” She disappeared into a back room.  
Kyle’s ears buzzed. Cold sweat coated his back. Kenny kneeled down and pushed Kyle’s hair back off his forehead. “Some color is coming back to your lips. That’s good. They were almost white before.”  
The woman came back with a can of Coca-cola and opened it for Kyle. She handed it to him and he immediately started drinking. The cold can and the brash acidity was refreshing. She put a hand on his shoulder, “are you okay, honey?”  
“Yeah,” replied Kyle, just above a whisper. He was starting to come back now.  
“He’s always had blood sugar issues,” explained Kenny. “Ever since we were kids.”  
“Oh,” the woman looked over at Kenny. A pinkish tint filled her cheeks. Kyle rolled his eyes.

…

“I know that this is the last thing you want to hear, but when you’re feeling better, promise me that you’ll eat something?” They were back in Kyle’s Jeep, parked in his driveway.  
“I’m convinced that you’re actually a Hebrew mother now,” Kyle was slouched back in the passenger seat, his hands over his face.  
“Well, I fucking told you, Kyle, if you starve yourself, you feed the anxiety.”  
“OH-KAY. I got it.”  
“Tell me you wouldn’t be the same way if this had happened to Ike.”  
Kyle lowered his head, looked emptily at the dashboard. It needed to be cleaned. The sun really brought out the dust.  
“No… you’re right,” he admitted. “I would. But I’m not your little sister, Kenny.”  
“No, but, we’re kind of like brothers. At least, we grew up like brothers.” Kenny stretched his arms out in front of him and yawned. “We know each other pretty well.”  
Kyle thoughtfully placed his palm over his chest and traced the biggest scar with his fingers, all the way from between his nipples to just above his collarbone.  
“How did you know, Kenny?”  
“How did I know what?”  
“When Cartman locked me in the shed with that raccoon. You knew exactly where I was.”  
“You were screaming…”  
“But you and Stan were really far away. There’s no way you guys actually heard me.”  
Kenny smirked, looked down at his lap. “I just knew. I felt something.”  
“I swear you have Cthulhu powers or some shit.”  
Kenny bit his lower lip, revealing his small overbite, then shook his head. Kyle watched his face.  
“Sometimes you can feel when someone you care about is in danger, Kyle. It’s not supernatural, it’s intuition. It’s love.”

Kyle mulled it over, thought about all the times he dreamt that he was destroying Stan.   
“I think I’m going to go inside now. I feel nauseous again.”   
  


…

Kyle watched from the Broflovski’s front window until Kenny was less than a speck on the horizon before opening the door.  
_Time to visit an old friend._

…

The Colorado Juvenile Detention Center looked exactly as Google Maps predicted. Grim. Covered in random vines and weeds. Underfunded. Kyle’s Jeep rolled slowly on the gravel driveway leading up to the front office. When he entered, the guard behind the glass didn’t even look up at him.

“Excuse me? Hi.”

The officer moved his eyes up to Kyle’s face but still didn’t move his head. Kyle read his nametag: “M. Chakwas.”

“Hi,” Kyle greeted again. “How are you?” No response from Chakwas. “Um, I’m here for visiting hours.”

“Never seen you before. You might not be on the approved visitors list. You got ID?”

“Yeah,” he fumbled around his pockets and produced his drivers’ license, then handed it through the slot.  _ Looks like Chakwas has seen some shit,  _ Kyle observed.

“Who are you visiting today?”

“Cartman… Eric Cartman.”

Chakwas jolted, “Are you serious? That kid? That kid is… messed up.” Something in his eyes had changed. “Are you sure?”

Kyle felt like he was getting asked that question a lot lately. He tightened his mouth and nodded curtly.

“That’s just as well, you and his mom are the only ones he put on his visitor list.” 

_ That’s not fucking creepy at all… _

“However, you can’t be in the regular visiting room,” Chakwas slid Kyle’s ID back through the slot, “he has to stay confined.”

“Okay…”

“What’s your relationship to the inmate anyway?”

_ ‘Inmate…’ that suits Cartman well.  _ “I’m the kid that he tried to kill.”

…

_  
_ Kyle rapped his fingers on the counter. His legs twitched. His ears were itchy. His throat was dry again. The figure that appeared before Kyle, between the thick layer of glass, was unlike anyone he had seen before. Wide-set brown eyes tucked into a purely square face. Ruddy cheeks. Enormous shoulders. A bulbous nose. If Kyle didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was meeting a Pixar character. Nevertheless, it was Cartman. He had recognized Kyle instantly, judging by the wide, toothy smile he gave when the guard sat him down.  
“Hi, Cartman,” Kyle said flatly.  
“Wow, Kyle!” The voice that came out of Cartman was high-pitched. Mocking. “What a handsome young man you’ve become!” He raised his hands and clasped them together, tilted his head to the side.  
Kyle ignored it. “It’s been awhile.”  
“Ooh, yes. Seven years, nine months, and two days if you want to get detailed!”  
__Has it only been about eight years? It feels like 50…  
“How’s your family?”  
“They’re fine, Cartman-”  
“You know my mom stopped visiting a couple years ago.”  
“I know, Cartman…”  
“I’m sure everybody fucking knows. That’s the thing about small towns,” Cartman stared directly into Kyle’s pupils, “Everyone is all over everyone else’s shit,” he pointed his index finger to his temple, “Sometimes you can tell what people are thinking about you just by looking at them.”  
“I think people are too wrapped up in their own thoughts to worry about some fat kid walking down the street-”  
Cartman brought his fists down on the counter with a thunderous blow. Kyle jumped and his heartbeat quickened.  
“Hey!” A guard stepped forward, “Watch it! Don’t break more shit, you fucknut!”

“Yes, sir!” Cartman responded with urgency, then flashed Kyle another toothy grin. “You have to not do that, Kyle.”

“No anger management classes here?” Kyle’s heart was reeling, he could swear he was having palpitations. Even though the glass separated them, Kyle pictured Cartman’s boxy hands smashing through and encapsulating Kyle’s neck.  
“I’m a lost cause,” Cartman replied happily like he was announcing an engagement.  
_‘I’m a lost cause.’_ Stan would say that to Kyle all the time; shaking. A razor blade or pocket knife or whatever else he could find gripped tightly in his hand. His vacant eyes staring into the distance, not seeing Kyle’s face at all.  
“Where’s Stan?” asked Cartman, as if on cue, “I’m surprised he’s not with you, attached to your hip like a benign tumor.” Cartman didn’t sound surprised at all, Kyle noticed.  
“Stan is missing,” Kyle said thinly.  
“Unfortunate,” Cartman’s eyelids lowered halfway.  
“And I get the feeling that you’re hiding something, Cartman. Something in my gut tells me you’re involved.”  
“Always go with your gut.”  
“Excuse me?”  
Cartman tilted his head back and smiled slightly. “I said: Always go with your gut.”  
Kyle leaned forward a little. Cartman mirrored him.  
“If I find out that Stan has been missing because of you…” Kyle hovered just in front of the glass. Cartman’s face was only a few breaths away.  
“If I find out,” Kyle repeated, “that you have been fucking with our lives somehow… I’ll fucking kill you.”  
“Oh-ho, really?” Cartman didn’t seem intimidated at all, which infuriated Kyle. He always hated how arrogant and nonchalant Cartman could be.  
“I. Will. Break. Your. Fucking. Neck.”  
“You’re sweating, Kyle. Nervous?”  
“You will die, Cartman. That cell won’t protect you from me-”  
“Man, your pores are huge. I can see everything! Don’t Jews go to dermatologists?”  
“-fucking pay attention-”  
“How are your worms, by the way?”  
Kyle’s breath caught in his throat. “You… motherfucker,” Kyle’s face turned beet red, “You motherfucker! What have you done to me?!”  
“Ha ha ha!” Cartman started banging his fists on the window, like a toddler. “WORMBOYWORMBOYWORMBOYWORMBOYWORM-”  
“What the fuck!” One of the guards grabbed Cartman’s shoulders, but he wouldn’t budge.  
“You’ll never,” Cartman scraped his nails against the glass, “ever,” one of the nails popped, peeling all the way back and leaving a snail trail of blood, “find him. Nevernevernevernever…”  
A few more guards emerged and managed to lift him up.  
Cartman spastically shook his head. Gritted his teeth. Kyle stood there, numb. Cartman’s eyes changed from brown to canary yellow in an instant.  
“And you’ll NEVER kill me, Kyle! You think you’re capable?! You’re too fucking WEAK! You’ve ALWAYS been a weak piece of shit!”  
Kyle slumped back in the chair. He stared in shock as Cartman was being dragged off into the shadows. He fixated on the smear of blood that was left behind.  
“You’re only alive because of fucking Kenny!” Cartman’s cry echoed through the building, searing in and out of Kyle’s mind and memories.  
  


…

The McCormick family never sat together for dinner anymore, except for Saturdays. Saturday was “family day,” and Kenny was already in trouble for coming home later than usual. But only in trouble with his mother. No one else seemed to mind. Especially little Karen McCormick, who wasn’t so little anymore. Peaking on the horizon of adolescence, Karen took everything to heart- hearing of Stan and Kyle’s situation, she had burst into fresh tears.

Kenny was accused of making his sister upset, to which he retorted truthfully that you can’t hide  _ everything _ from children.

“Do you think they’ll find him, Kenny? Karen asked him, her fork wavered over the plate of brown rice and chicken.

“Eventually,” he answered, scooping some vegetables for himself.

“Dead or alive,” Stuart McCormick chimed in before taking a swig of Budweiser. Carol whacked him on the back of the head. “What? What? C’mon, it’s true!”

Kenny turned to his little sister, who was wide-eyed with distress.

“Don’t worry, Karen. Stan can take care of himself.”

“Yeah,” Stuart chimed again, “Stan can take care of himself, so you can take care of Kyle.” He burped.

Kenny looked down at his plate. His cheeks flushed. “Heywhydon’twechangethesubject,” he said all in one breath. He swallowed a carrot slice and then looked back up at his father. “I was thinking I’d like to hire Butters for the shop.”

“The Stotch kid? He doesn’t know shit about cars!”

“No, but he’s willing to learn. Which is better than sitting around doing NOTHING, dad.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Whatever you think I mean,” Kenny spat. His cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.

“Oh, geez, I wonder who that could be.” Another whack on the head was delivered to Stuart.

Lo and behold, it was Kyle calling. Kenny exited into the living room and hit “answer.”

“Hey, Kyle.”

“Hey, dude.”

“What’s going on? Are you feeling better?” Kenny lazily walked around the living room. Fingered the hem of his tee shirt. Noticed a coffee stain.

“I’m fine. I think. Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

“What- what is it?”

“I was thinking about some things and… I remembered that time Stan and I were out at that Flogging Molly concert. And he was kind of buzzed…”

“Okay?”

“The day that Cartman almost killed me… Stan seemed to recall it differently than what you told me today.”

“Um.”

“And I don’t know if it was because of the loud environment, or the alcohol, that I disregarded it, but it’s bothering me now…”

“What did Stan say?” Kenny now held his shirt crumpled in his fist, stretching the fabric over his sunburnt shoulders.

“Stan told me that you guys were in his living room. That you were playing games and then you just zoned out and started drooling. And then you snapped back and said ‘Kyle needs help’.”

“Oh… he did?”

“Yeah. He did. Care to explain?”

“Kyle… it would take almost an eternity to explain…” Kenny saw Karen look over at him, concerned. Kenny frowned and turned away from her. “You can come over. I’ll explain everything,” he said quietly.

“You know what I think, Kenny?”

“Uh, what?”

“I think that you and Cartman planned a prank on me, and you backed out at the last minute.”

“Oh, no, Kyle, that’s not-”

“What the fuck else could it be?”

“I would never put any of my friends in danger! You should know that-”

“Ugh, I don’t know who to trust anymore!” Kyle shouted and hung up.

Kenny felt the blare of the phone screen lighting back up on the side of his face. He brought it down and wiped away the oil with his thumb.

Karen peered out under the archway of the kitchen. Kenny slumped onto the couch.

“Are you okay, big brother?”

Kenny gave her a little half-smile. “I’m always okay when you’re around, Karen.”

…

_ June 4, 2017 _

Kyle awoke to Sheila gently nudging him.

“Come on sweetie, today’s the big day,” she said softly.

“Ngh,” Kyle started coughing. What felt like pounds of phlegm was nestled in his throat. “Too early,” he croaked.

“No, just in time,” Sheila said firmly. “I’ll let you get your shower. Breakfast is almost ready.”

Kyle sat up. He smelled the cigarette stench on his Duran Duran tee shirt. He prayed that his mother wouldn’t notice. She had a good nose. Maybe she didn’t want to notice.

Sheila patted him on the head, and gave him a kiss on the temple, “I am so proud of you, Kyle.” She squeezed his shoulder and headed out, but not before turning around his computer chair to reveal Kyle’s cap and gown, pressed and cleaned, ready to go.

“Don’t forget your honors cords,” she added.

…

Kyle entered the back entrance of the arena. The graduating class of 2017 was all rounded up there.

_ All except Stan,  _ Kyle thought, rubbing his neck. It was sore again. The polyester gown irritated his skin.

A few people glanced at Kyle, but no one seemed to want to approach him.

_ If Kenny were here, he’d…  _ Kyle’s chest clenched. He didn’t want to believe Kenny purposely tried to hurt him…  _ but… what other explanation is there… _

_ ‘It’s not supernatural. It’s intuition. It’s love.’ _

Butters emerged from one of the bodily clusters, nudging Clyde into Token a bit too forcefully.

“Sorry!” He called back to them. “Hey, Kyle! How ya doin’ buddy?”

“I’m… I’m okay, Butters. How are you?”

“You don’t have to lie, Kyle. We know you’re sad ( _ everyone is all over everyone else’s shit)  _ . It’s okay to be sad.”

Kyle did say anything. He didn’t know whether or not to say ‘thank you’ or let Butters keep talking. Butters kept talking anyway:

“Kyle, I was thinking that we could walk together at the ceremony so you don’t have to be alone.”

Kyle again couldn’t speak; he could only bring himself to nod slightly.

…

_ There are places I remember _

_ All my life, though some have changed _

_ Some forever not for better _

_ Some have gone and some remain _

_ All these places have their moments _

_ With lovers and friends I still can recall _

_ Some are dead and some are living _

_ In my life I’ve loved them all _

_ But of all these friends and lovers _

_ There is no one compares with you… _

The student choir swelled, the cadence of their voices twirled with the lyrics. Kyle always thought that The Beatles were a little overrated, but, he still appreciated the song. It was getting to him. Everything felt… final, for some reason.

When the song ended, the principal started his speech about hard work and dedication… bright futures… open doors… it all sounded like buzzing bees to Kyle.

“Supposed to be up here…” he heard.

_ Stan is supposed to be here… _

“No doubt surrounded by those who love him…”

_ I love him so much… _

“The class of 2017 Valedictorian: Kyle Broflovski!”

Kyle snapped his head up to see about a mass of students looking back at him. Butters nudged his arm slightly.

“I think they want you to give a speech, Kyle… oh, but don’t feel like you have to or nothin’...”

Kyle looked all around at the families in their seats. He easily spotted his parents and Ike, all of them either giving a thumbs up or waving. Kyle stood up.

“I’ll do it.”

He shuffled along his row until he reached the aisle, then quickly walked past the sea of faces. Everyone in the stadium started applauding. Kyle saw Craig nod at him out of the corner of his eye.

When Kyle approached the podium, the principal shook his hand and gestured Kyle towards the microphone. The applause tore into silence.

“Um,” he said, taken aback by the echo of his own weak voice reverberating in the air. “I haven’t written anything for this. I kind of forgot.”

A few polite laughs sounded throughout.

“But, I know I have a reputation for giving speeches on demand… or not on demand, so here it goes:

My best friend has been missing for about six weeks now. So a little over a month.”

Kyle steadied his hands on the sides of the podium and continued:

“My birthday came and went this past week and it meant nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. Because… well, it actually used to mean a lot.

Stan and I had a tradition of going fishing at Stark’s Pond the morning of my birthday. We’d get up as early as 6 am just to walk down the road. But I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind because we got to be together. And it was quiet. It would still be kind of dark outside and we would just sit on the dock and talk about whatever.

When my birthday came this year, I woke up at 6 am just to realize that it wasn’t worth waking up.

I… I would give my life just to have those small moments back. Just to have my friend back.

But… this is graduation, so I guess I have to turn this into something positive, so…

When you leave this building today, think about all the people in your life that you care about, and tell them you care. Because all of this-”

He gestured to the ocean of white and green decor.

“All of this- grades and achievements, they matter, but, not when it comes to… Not when it comes to love.

What matters is the one person that makes all the shitty stuff in life worth it…

I hope that you guys will remember me, and when or if you think of me, remember to not take your loved ones for granted.”

Kyle looked down, back up at his classmates, and back down again. He backed away from the podium.

Butters suddenly stood up and fist-bumped the air, “FUCK YEAH, KYLE!”

…

“I am so proud of you, bubbe,” Sheila put an arm around her son.

“You’re not upset that I swore? In front of hundreds of people?” Kyle asked, half-joking. He was relieved to be out of the gown and back into a shirt and jeans.

“Everyone loved it,” Sharon Marsh pushed a plate of wafers in Kyle’s direction. All of them: Sheila, Gerald, Ike, Randy, Sharon, and even Sparky encircled the dining room table. “You spoke your truth, Kyle. Not everyone is brave enough to do that,” she added.

“Yeah, you really got Butters going,” quipped Ike, taking a bite out of a blueberry muffin.

“And now he’s probably grounded. They probably took away his diploma, haha.” It was the first humorous thing Kyle had said in weeks. Ike snorted. Gerald gently poked Kyle’s elbow.

“Well, it was a lovely ceremony,” Sheila fiddle with her napkin. Everyone ‘hmm’d’ in agreement.

Kyle pushed his chair back, “I’m going to the bathroom.” He gave Sparky a quick scratch behind the ear before the leaving the adults to continue conversing.

Instead of going to the bathroom, however, Kyle went for the stairs. He crept up as quietly as possible, then entered Stan’s room.

It looked as if Stan was just in it. The bed wasn’t even made. Kyle stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. Some clothes were strewn around his computer desk. Kyle saw the glimmer of his Star of David necklace among piles of scrap paper. He walked over and picked it up, let the chain slither between his fingers. He set it back down over  _ Mayakovsky’s Revolver. _

A small red journal caught his attention. Plain. No label. Kyle picked it up.

_ Should I even read this?  _ Kyle turned it over and over in his hands.  _ There might be something in here that could help… _

Carefully, he opened to the first page.

There were mostly scribbles, absent-minded curls and dots. Sketches of Sparky. An extremely detailed sketch of a zipper.

Kyle continued flipping.

SpongeBob. Fish. Giraffes. More scribbles that looked like dirt clouds. A trash can with “#me” next to it.

Kyle rolled his eyes.

Bees. Worms.

_ Worms. _

A poem:

_ The files of my mind are so cluttered _

_ Controlled but messy _

_ My cerebral secretary must be fired _

‘ _ Welcome to Hell’ _

_ Her long pink nails impatiently tap the large manilla folder with all of my thoughts _

‘ _ No insurance’ _

_ ‘No benefits’ _

_ ‘Your mind is an oyster’ _

_ Black hole, everything could be compressed into a .zip folder _

_ But my WinRAR trial has expired _

_ And I’m fucking cheap _

Kyle chuckled. Stan said weird things all the time, but sometimes he could be pretty funny. He continued turning the pages. More doodles. Cats. Ice cream. Another poem:

_ To, _

_ Rubber Ocean _

_ the lake flips and swallows me _

“Stan, what the hell?”

_ My father was a hard worker _

_ He wore suits like a fish wears scales _

_ The fish in his office (the other son) _

_ Circles around and around _

_ Pushing oxygen through its gills _

_ Pressing itself against the clear bottom _

_ He doesn’t understand why he’s there _

_ to swim _

Kyle shook his head. He thumbed through the graphite-stained pages until he saw a page with the title “Kyle.” His breath hitched. The page was dated the day before Stan had proposed. The rest of the pages was blank for a small block of text just under “Kyle”:

_ you are the tapestry, the fringe _

_ burnt sienna and crushed sunflower petals _

_ you make my heart a pillow _ _. _

_ your taste is stitched there _

Kyle put a hand over his heart.  _ Oh, Stan. I don’t really know what this means, but… _

Kyle closed the notebook. There was nothing that gave hints about where Stan might be, but he wanted the notebook regardless. He pulled out his phone.

**Stan, please come home. Everyone misses you. I miss you.**

**If you come back, we can start over again.**

**Talk to you soon.**

The doorbell rang. Sparky barked. Kyle slid the book into his back pocket, his phone in the other pocket then turned to leave.

…

Kyle gingerly walked back down the stairs, trying to avoid creaking if possible. He watched Randy open the front door.

Two police officers stood on the porch. Kyle froze.

“Sir, are you the homeowner here?”

“Uh, yes?”

Sharon walked up the door as well, “can we help you, officers?”

“You’re the parents of Stanley Marsh?”

Kyle felt his knees quivering. His sweating palm started to slide down the handrail.

“Yes, you found our son? Where is here?” Randy asked.

The officers exchanged brief glances. At the same time, they lowered their hats.

Kyle sunk unto the carpeted steps and gripped the banister. One of the officers looked up at him.

“Sir. Ma’am. We need you to come down to the Park County Coroner’s Office to identify your son’s body.” 


	4. Grim Sleeper

**A/N: Hi everyone, hope today finds you well. I haven't updated in a while because I updated previous chapters of this work, including adding some scenes and changing dialogue. It's also why this chapter is so short. Thank you so much to everyone who has read/commented. It’s very appreciated! Anyway, here we go:**

_ I hate when the family’s toothbrushes are leaning into each other like they’re talking dirty _

_ “Get in my bristles” “give me what they put in their mouths today” _

_ I don’t want to share _

_ Get in my bristles _

_ grab me by the mouth, put your thumb in it like you would _

_ and gag me, split me _

_ like the spine of a book and find nothing because _

_ I’ve swallowed everything so you can’t see _

                                            -found in Stan Marsh’s history notebook

(date unknown)

  
  


....

 

They followed the police car in silence. Randy drove. Sharon stared out the window. Kyle sat in the back and picked at the cloth seat. There was still a heart-shaped stain from Kenny spilling a raspberry smoothie when they were in the seventh grade.  _ Everything was simpler then. All of us were so different.  _ Kyle pulled his phone out and stared at the screen. His fingers twitched. He wanted to tell Kenny what was happening. 

They couldn’t be sure yet if it actually would be Stan that the police found. He wanted to hold on to the idea that it could be a mistake. It could be some other boy, but not Stan. Not his Stan.

Sheila had begged Kyle not to go with the Marsh’s. She pulled at his arm on his way out the door like he had been drafted and was off to war. Leaving his mother like that hurt him but he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t go. The radio was on but at a very low volume. Mostly static noises were heard. And it was on seek mode. Music, commercial, static, commercial, music, static, static, static… no one bothered to stop it or shut it off. It reminded Kyle of his own brain.

Sharon’s cell rang. “Hey Shelley, can we call you back in a little while?” Shelly had been instructed to stay put in case Stan ran away to her apartment in Indiana. Kyle could barely make out what she was saying on the other end, even though she was speaking quite loudly. Sharon’s sighs and forlorn responses told Kyle that Shelley wasn’t giving good new anyway. Sharon hung up. She didn’t tell Shelley where they were going. It was probably for the best until they had the truth. Kyle put his phone away.

When they pulled up to the Coroner’s, no one moved to get out of the station wagon. Kyle’s stomach was in knots as he stared out at the building. It looked like it could be someone’s house. Not a place for the dead.

Randy put an arm around the back of Sharon’s seat and looked over at his wife, “whatever we see in there today, regardless if it’s Stan’s body or not, we have to remember that bodies and spirits are different. We have to try and get this over with.” Kyle was feeling excluded until Randy glanced at him. He pulled the door handle.

 

…

 

“Before we do the actual visual part of the identification process, I need to ask you folks some questions about Stanley, okay?” A young man, who couldn’t be more than 30, sat with them in a brown and red office. He had a notepad in front of him and was using a blue pen that had bite marks all over it. “Can you describe some of Stanley’s physical attributes that would distinguish him from others?” Kyle couldn’t believe what he was hearing. That someone could speak about Stan so professionally, so clinically. A subject on the dissection table. “Any birthmarks? Scars? Tattoos?”

“He has a paw print tattoo on his left wrist,” volunteered Shannon.

“Yeah, I remember when he came home with that,” said Randy. He turned to Kyle, “and you were the one that took him to get it.”

Kyle couldn’t think of a response that Stan would want him to say. The truth was that he wanted Kyle to give him the tattoo since it went so well the first time, but Kyle refused. He couldn’t bring himself to burn Stan with a needle where his scars had made a home. So they went to an expo and had it done by an artist that was chipper and openly told Stan about pain therapy- one of the facets of this kind of therapy was tattooing instead of self-harming. Stan left very happy that day. Randy and Sharon were not happy about the small and harmless ink. They still didn’t know about the whale tattoos on both of their thighs.

“Can you folks tell me anything else, please?”

“There’s scarring on both of his arms,” Kyle quietly replied.  _ If the roles were reversed, I’d be too easy to identify. Kidney transplant scar, check. Raccoon attack scars, check. Fish hook scar on the back of my head, check.  _ He wished it was him lying on a cold table in the next room instead of Stan. “There’s a brown birthmark on his stomach, right above the belly button.”  _ I’ve kissed that spot so many times… _

“His wisdom teeth are removed,” Randy said.

“Okay,” the coroner scribbled in his notepad, “Kyle, is it?” Kyle nodded. “You said Stanley has scarring. Do you know if they are from self-harm?”

Kyle swallowed. His chest tightened. “They are.”

Randy and Sharon quickly turned their heads to Kyle. It was the first time they were hearing about this. Stan kept his outer damage well-hidden.

“Kyle, I need you to answer me honestly for these next two questions. It’s important for this particular case.” Kyle’s heart pounded. “Over the course of your relationship, how often would Stanley self-harm?”

“It-It depended on how stressed he was. Every week was different. But if I have to give…” He glanced uneasily at Randy and Sharon, “If I have to give a numerical answer, it would have to be maybe two to three times a month. He stopped around this time last year though. We gave each other an ultimatum. I would quit smoking cigarettes if he stopped cutting. We found alternatives. I chewed gum, mostly. And he wore rubber bands on his arm. He snapped them when he had the urge. It worked. Both of us would slip up sometimes, Mostly me.”

“And did Stanley ever talk about taking his own life?”

Kyle inhaled sharply. The question burrowed into his throat and flexed its claws, brought them down with a sickening slash.

“All the time.”

...

 

None of them were ready. No one ever is.

He pulled the sheet back with dry, powdery hands.

Glazed over blue eyes. Shaggy black hair. Thin lips. He was on display, the hard reality in a showcase. There was no denying it was Stan.

_ My Stan… _

Sharon doubled over and almost fell to the floor before Randy caught her. Kyle stared into his glassy eyes. His mouth turned down in distress. The purple bruises and ripe lesions from where they said they cut the rope from his neck. He couldn’t take it. 

His body turned to the exit and ran. He ran past the other employees, the red walls, the somber and reflective art pieces, the pain. Kyle pushed open the front door and stumbled onto the front lawn, landing on his knees. He bent down, grabbed onto the grass, dug his fingers into the soil, and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Grim Sleeper" by Butcher Babies- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSF07eShIOU


	5. A Letter I Never Wanted to Write

_ June 10, 2017 _

 

(excerpt from the last page of Stan Marsh’s journal, written in blue ink)

 

Dear Stan,

Stan.

Stan…

My mother has covered all the mirrors in our house.

Traditionally, when a family member passes, this is what Jews do so that we can focus on mourning. It’s also to protect your spirit from getting trapped, or to stop wicked spirits from attacking yours. My family has never been that orthodox, but… you’re a special case.

I don’t want to address you so clinically like this.

How do I even go about this? I’m writing in  _ your  _ journal. I feel like I’m soiling it. Like I’m violating you.

My mother has covered all the mirrors in the house because every time I look into one all I see is you- your nose, your eyes, your hair, your throat. Whenever my lips part, it’s your voice that comes out. My mother has covered all the mirrors in the house because the image of you fades and all that’s left is my guilty fucking face, the same face that I’ve had for my whole life but can’t stand to see anymore. She covered the mirrors because I punched out one of them until my knuckles became raw and my reflection turned into a sickening mosaic of jagged and red-filmed pieces. 

Your funeral is tomorrow and I don’t think I can stand it. Babe, I haven’t cried once since I saw you last…

I mean, since I saw your body last. 

I thought: “It’s over. It’s done. He’s gone.”

But my body and my heart won’t accept it. It feels like you’re still around but you’re not with me. My parents say that I can take as much time as I need to grieve. I don’t want to grieve. I just want you back. 

I am selfish. I am needy. And I can’t mourn you. I refuse.

Your funeral is going to be an open casket. I’m sorry but I don’t think I’ll be able to approach you. To see you absolutely still, no breathing or smiling, or talking… I’m not strong enough, Stan. My heart is shattered just like that mirror. 

My mother has covered all the mirrors in the house because she understands, I think, that I never have and never will love anyone the way that I love you. 

If there is some kind of afterlife, or Kingdom of Clouds, I hope that you know that. Know that I am still in love with you.

Or at least you know it now.

If you were here, I’d take you and all of your demons, all the things that were hurting you. I’d change what I said. I would have said yes. I would say yes to you, every hour on the hour, for the rest of my life. I’d never want to kiss you goodbye again. 

I will miss you everyday.

  
  


Kyle

P.S. I wish

I wish I was the one that was dead. 


	6. Dead Kids

 

 

**A/N: I wish I could write these updates faster.**

 

**I’ve been so touched by everyone that has read, commented, or voted. Thank you for your patience and involvement. Because of some life changes, things have been extremely hectic, but writing this on the side has helped.**

 

**This chapter isn’t very horror-centric, so I hope to ramp that up in forthcoming additions.**

 

**Once again, thank you.**

 

**Btw, High Jew Elf cosplay plus the Renaissance Festival was a fun combo, and I highly recommend!**

**...**

MARSH, Stanley

 

It is with great sadness that the family of Stanley Marsh announces his sudden passing at the age of 17. Stan will be lovingly remembered by his parents, Randy and Sharon Marsh, and his elder sister Shelley. Stan will also be fondly remembered by his boyfriend, Kyle Broflovski.

Stan was an exemplary student with an honors recognition in the English studies. He will be greatly missed by the faculty as well as his classmates.

A Funeral Service in memory of Stan will be held at 10 am at the River Funeral Home, 333 Helel Drive, Park County with Rev. Maxi officiating. A celebration of Stan’s life will be held at the McCormick household for immediate friends and family afterward.

In lieu of flowers, please send a memorial donation to Colorado Pawz, a no-kill shelter in Denver.

...

**_May 26, 2012_ **

 

Stan climbed over the frame of his best friend’s bedroom window in the dark. One foot dangled down to the floor before hoisting himself over with the other leg. A birthday gift wrapped loosely in a recycled newspaper was tucked between his elbow and hip.

He slid the smudged window pane behind him and squinted into the room. He expected to see the shape of Kyle entombed under a mountain of blankets. But he wasn’t there. The 12-year old Stan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He fumbled around with the lamp on the nightstand, looking for a chain to pull. With a heavy click, a dull orange lit up the room. The mattress was devoid of any comforter or blankets. Only a gray fitted sheet was tucked around it.

“Kyle?” Stan whispered. The sound bounced harshly around the walls. The small, white alarm clock read 5:37 am in glaring, digital red font. It was still covered with Sharpie signatures in various colors, from all of the boys except for Cartman’s, whose name had been furiously scribbled out. All of them had yearbooks. No one could remember why they all signed Kyle’s alarm clock. Maybe just to fill some random blank space with their marks.  He picked it up with his free hand and turned it slightly. Of course, his name was there, small and insecure, in blue ink. What he hadn’t noticed before was a little red heart had been added to his name. Like his signature, the heart was faded. It had been there for a while. He didn’t remember drawing it there.

Looking around the room again (he figured that Kyle might walk through the door at any moment, wrapped in blankets with a glass of water in his hand), Stan put the gift on the bed, pulled his phone out of his pajama pocket, and snapped a picture of it of this newfound heart by his name. He was lying to himself about not knowing why. He knew why. The thoughts started when Kyle got back together with Rebecca Cotswolds. It kept him up at night. Different voices in his brain constantly fought each other.

But all of it excited him. These new voices excited him the most.

He put the clock back down and threw the phone on the bed. Kyle’s door was still shut. There was no sound of anyone coming up the stairs. No sounds at all throughout the house, except for Gerald’s snoring.

Maybe Kyle was in Ike’s room.

Stan walked around the bed, about to pass Kyle’s closet, when he heard a familiar dialogue, very faintly, coming from behind the wooden sliding door:

 _...they gave me a receipt for the donut… I don’t need a receipt for the donut. I give you money and you give me the donut, end of transaction…_ followed by Kyle giggling softly. Stan furrowed his brow, reaching for the closet door. He slid it halfway and poked his head in to see Kyle, swathed in a plethora of blankets and pillows, laptop open to a Mitch Hedburg video on YouTube, headphones in, staring up at Stan wide-eyed. He immediately ripped the headphones out.

“Stan?” Kyle’s eyes looked like they were about to bulge over, a teenaged deer in headlights, but he managed to smile. Kyle didn’t like surprises, but he seemed happy about this one. For a brief moment, Stan put his hand on his chest- his heart had fluttered a little. “Are you okay, Stan?”

Stan ripped his hand away. Straightened himself up. “Yeah, totally. Are _you_ okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just-” he gestured to the laptop, “I couldn’t sleep. So I’m doing this. You can watch with me if you want. I can start it over…”

“Actually, I,” Stan pointed with his thumb to the gift he left on the bed. “I brought you a gift. You don’t have to open it right now though.”

“You got me something?”

“Of course, it’s your birthday, dude.”

“Oh… right.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Kyle?”

Kyle nodded tightly, his lips pursed. He moved over and patted the space on the floor next to him. Stan obliged. He sat next to his red-headed companion, who threw a blanket over his lap. Their hands brushed.

“Dude, your hands are freezing!”

“Yeah. I don’t know why I’m so cold…”

“You’re literally covered in blankets.”

Kyle just shrugged.

“Well… here.” He loosely grabbed both of Kyle’s hands, “My hands are warm.”

Kyle tensed up, but he didn’t draw back. He smiled sadly at Stan, who was exhaling hot breath inside Kyle’s cupped hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Stan.”

“I want to,” he replied, not even hesitating for a beat. Kyle yawned. His eyes teared up. “Did you, like, even sleep at all?”

“No, not really,” said Kyle with a sigh, “I’ve actually been having a hard time sleeping.”

He rested Kyle’s hands on his lap. “Why?”

“Thinking too much, I guess.”

“About what?”

“I… I don’t know. A lot of stuff. I don’t really know where to begin.”

“Start from the beginning?”

“I… I just want to be distracted right now, Stan.”

Stan thought about the heart next to his name. Wanted to ask about it so badly. Wanted to dig deeper. They were already holding hands… Not like they haven’t before, but it was different this time. Confined in such a small space together, breathing each other’s air.

Just one question was burning in Stan’s throat.

“Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you maybe just upset that Rebecca is moving away? You’ve just been, like, really funky lately.”

Kyle leaned his head on the closet wall and looked up at the bottom of the shelf. “Yeah. It’s one of the biggest reasons I’ve been ‘funky’ I guess. It sucks.”

“It does,” Stan loosened his fingers around their hands, “But Kyle… she doesn’t seem to really give a fuck. Like, she’s not nearly as upset as you are. She seems excited, even.”

Kyle slouched forward. Closed the laptop. “That makes it hurt even worse. I shouldn’t have given her a second chance.”

“Maybe,” said Stan, a little snappily. Kyle glanced at him. Even in the dark, Stan could make out the pained contours of his face. “I don’t know,” he added in a softer tone. “I just think that you’re a little too forgiving sometimes.”

“Ah, so you’ve noticed.” He sounded drained. He sounded older than he actually was. There was silence for a few moments. Then: “I guess I should try and start getting over her now.” He looked at Stan. Was this an invitation? Stan wanted it to be.

He leaned to the side, toward Kyle, ready to embrace him. His leg extended out, knocking over a fishing pole. Kyle put his arm out and blocked it before it could whack Stan’s head.

“Shit! I’m sorry! That was loud…”

Kyle shrugged. He carefully laid the pole down between them. “It was an accident, you don’t have to be sorry. I’m just glad it didn’t fall on you.”

“Thanks to you.”

Their faces were only centimeters apart. Kyle shifted nervously.

“Kyle?”

“Yeah, Stan?”

“I wish you were as nice to yourself as you are to me.”

“I’m working on it, Stan.”

Suddenly, Stan pulled away. “Since that thing came falling down on us,” he picked up the pole, “Why don’t we go fishing at the pond? Maybe you could use some air?”

 

…

 

The low rattle of cicadas drifted over the two friends; sitting on the dock that jutted out into the water. Stan swung his legs back and forth, causing his lure to bob around like a drunk ballerina. His Phantogram tee shirt had holes around the armpits. One of the tell-tale signs of a growing Stan was his ripping of shirts every time he raised his arms. The same was happening to Kyle, but faster, and Sheila would consistently come home with longer shirts for him. Stan was too attached to his band tees. To him, everything, living or not, had a voice.

Kyle happily studied his gift: a hardcover compilation of all the _Johnny the Homicidal Maniac_ comics. He flipped through the pages, admiring the art, staring too long at some of the more gory illustrations.

“If you drop that in the water, I’ll push you in there after it,” Stan looked over at his friend with a teasing smile.

“Doubt it,” Kyle retorted in the same teasing tone. “But don’t worry, I have an iron grip on this thing,” he said, raising the book up a little, “I’ve been wanting this for forever.”

“It was on your little “books I want to read” list on the cork board in your room. So I guess you can cross it off now.”

Kyle blushed and looked back down at his book. Stan shifted, making the dock creak a little bit. He absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair. Kyle zoned in on one particular illustration. It took up the entire page. Black and white gore was somehow more intriguing to him than the fully fleshed out gore in the movies. This one had dissected dolls, and a contemplative Johnny staring out the window into the night sky:

 

**Dear Die-ary,**

 

**Today I stuffed some dolls full of dead rats I put in the blender.**

 

 **I’m wondering if, maybe, there** **really** **is something wrong with me.**

 

Kyle read the second sentence out loud.

“I wonder that too,” Stan said quietly.

“What?”

“Not about you. Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“What do you think is wrong with you?”

Stan couldn’t respond. He couldn’t think of how to tell Kyle how he was spending restless nights, scratching at arms, banging his head on walls, dragging scissors down his thighs. He wouldn’t be able to look into Kyle’s sweet face and admit all of this. Not today. Not on his birthday. Just a few years down the road, Kyle would be the one dabbing Vaseline on Stan’s arms, all the while murmuring _this was a really bad one, Stan._

(next time you feel like doing this call me immediately)

(i will kyle)

(you say you will but you don’t

                                       by the time i reach you

                                       it’s too late

                                       i’m terrified that one day i’ll just

find your body)

“It’s okay, Stan. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

“I don’t know if I ever want to tell you, Kyle.”

Kyle tightened his mouth. He would have been offended if it weren’t for Stan’s solemn, almost protective tone. The lure stopped bobbing.

Kyle cleared his throat. “Are you still coming to the Bar Mitzvah?”

“Of course,” Stan was instantly beaming, startling Kyle a bit, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Kenny still wants to come too.”

“Okay, good. It’ll make me feel better if you guys are there.”

“You’re nervous?” Kyle just nodded and stared out over the water. Some of the trees closest to the water had been cut down and chiseled into thick, sharp points. Stan noticed them too. “They kind of look like teeth.”

“That’s a bit creepy, Stan.”

Stan half-smiled and looked back down at the water. “Says the guy that’s reading _Johnny the Homicidal Maniac_.”

“Touché.”

After a few minutes of silence, Kyle put the book inside his backpack and stared at his feet, kicking slightly. He could never sit still. He was too pent up to force his body to stay solitary. Anxiety about his Bar Mitzvah was more overwhelming than he wanted to admit. He knew it would be filled family and neighbors asking him “how does it feel to be thirteen” over and over again. There would be people clustered in every corner of the house. A lot of chatter, all at once. So many sounds coming from so many mouths. Kyle’s shoulders tensed up and became rigid. Above all else, he would have to get up in front of _everyone_ and read from the Torah. His family barely spoke Hebrew at home, and it just wasn’t catching on as much with him. He was trying, but the fear of fucking up ate away at him, no matter how much the Rabbi told him he was doing fine.

“You’re grinding your teeth,” looked over at his anxious friend.

“Huh?”

The fishing pole pulled into an arch. A frantic Stan stood up and started reeling.

“Don’t reel so fast, Stan! You’re gonna lose it!”

As if on cue, the hook emerged from the water. Fishless. Stan pouted. “God damn it.”

“You panicked.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve established that via the empty hook, Kyle.”

Kyle shrugged, “how are you ever going to feed your family now, Stan?” He stuck out his tongue slightly.

Stan flipped him off. He stepped back to recast. Kyle looked out, expecting to see the hook plop back into the water, but instead, stiffened at the sudden impact of the hook colliding into the back of his head.

“Oh my God, Kyle! I am so so sorry, I am so sorry, oh my God.” Stan was pacing around Kyle now.

Kyle blinked hard. His vision wavered in and out. _Did the hook just hit my head?_ He reached up and grabbed for it. The hook felt like it was only entangled in his hair. He pulled. An instant, searing pain tore through his scalp. Kyle stood up and faced Stan, who was pale with guilt, the whites of his eyes glimmering like wet hard-boiled eggs.

“Is it stuck?” he asked. His voice was thin. Weak.

Kyle reached again. Yes. It was stuck. “Seems that way.” _Stay calm, stay calm. Don’t freak out._ Kyle looked at his fingers. The tips gleaned a sheer layer of bright blood.

Stan trembled. He started towards Kyle, “maybe I can get it out.”

Kyle turned his back to Stan. “Just be careful,” he cautioned. “I don’t like that it’s all attached to the pole still.”

Gingerly, Stan meshed his fingers into Kyle’s hair. He tried to bunch of the scalp and push the hook out one side. Kyle squirmed. “Okay, no! Please stop! Stop!”

“I almost got it, Kyle! Stay still.”

“I can’t! It fucking hurts!” Irritation continued to rise up through his belly as Stan continued, each tug of the skin bringing more pain. His spine twisted, elbow squared out, knocking Stan to the edge of the dock. Stan wobbled, tried to reach out to Kyle, but it was too late. Stan fell backward with a flat _thwap!_ Into the chilly, unforgiving waters of Stark’s Pond.

 

…

 

“Here Kyle, you’re gonna need this,” Stan’s Uncle Jimbo pressed a glass of Irish whiskey into Kyle’s shaking hand.

Stan sat across from him, shivering under a blanket embroidered with a stoic buck.

Jimbo disappeared into the back office, presumably to get a first aid kit. Kyle stared down into the glass with unease. His eyes burned from leftover tears. The boys had trekked over to his gun shop because Kyle- still attached to the fishing rod, refused to go to the hospital for fear of his mother finding out. Jimbo lived in an apartment with Ned above the store, and if there was anyone that could help with hunting-related injuries, it would be those two. They couldn’t help but laugh when a sour-faced Kyle and a remorseful Stan showed up at their door, connected by a small, red fishing pole. They immediately cut the string and Stan drop-kicked it across the room.

After examining the scalp, Ned concluded that some of Kyle’s hair needed to be cut off. Not too much, but just enough for the hook to not get tangled. Wouldn’t be noticeable at all; especially after Kyle puts on a yarmulke. Snippets of curly red hair floated to the ground while Stan sulked, tearing himself up about how horrible of a friend he is. _It’s not like I’m dying, Stan._

Then came the hard part.

Jimbo pulled out bigger scissors. The blades were thicker, and the sight of them made Kyle squirm. “I’ll try to make it quick, Kyle,” he had said, “but you’ve got a treble hook in there, and two of the prongs are pretty deep. I have to try and cut the tips off.

“There isn’t another way you can get them out?” Stan pleaded. He had a hand on Kyle’s knee. There was no other way.

Kyle doubled over, crying, as Jimbo nearly tore through his skull. His ears rang. Stan tried so hard to talk him through it, but all he could hear through the shrill screeching that violated senses was _kyledogood_

_Hold_

_Breath_

_Almost_

_There_

_Please_

 

Suddenly, the bloody hook was in front of Kyle’s face. Bent. Severed. Stan looked like hell. Kyle imagined that he looked worse.

Afterward was when Jimbo gave him the whiskey. He didn’t have numbing gel, and Kyle needed stitches.

“Back in Civil War times,” Jimbo returned with a miniature first-aid kit, “amputees threw back some whiskey and bit down on the towel before the operation. You’re just getting a few stitches, but I still think you deserve a drink.” He ushered Stan to get off his rolling stool. The boy obeyed and stood by with Ned, watching intently. Neither of them said a word. Kyle solemnly looked down again at the auburn liquid. “I’m not putting these threads in your head unless you throw that down your hatch,” Jimbo pushed.

Kyle looked over at Stan, who looked so small wrapped in the oversized hunting blanket.  

“I’m not responsible for anything I say after drinking this,” Kyle said to Jimbo.

“That’s your prerogative, kid.”

Another moment. Kyle chugged. His throat burned.

He didn’t mind.

 

…

 

Sheila was all over them, fussing with Kyle’s tie, slicking back Ike’s hair. He was in a phase where he wanted it spiked all the time, even going as far as stealing Kyle’s hair gel. But he stole everything from his brother: tee shirts, comics, anything. Kyle tended to be passive with Ike over things like that. He took it as a compliment.

Outside, heavy rain beat against the side of the synagogue. The pounding resonated in Kyle’s ears. Everything seemed louder. It was the whiskey. There was too much of it in the glass, but he drank all of it, and now he was paying for it. He could’ve sworn he went cross-eyed at some point during the car ride there, and he was now rubbing his temples with cool hands. Nausea took over. It didn’t help that the synagogue, like most buildings in South Park, was on uneven terrain, the floors uneven. Tilted. He pulled down on his yarmulke again even though it was pinned down and not going anywhere. It grazed his stitches. He flinched.

Busy with Ike’s stubborn hair, Sheila was none the wiser to her other son’s situation. He savored it, knowing these would be the last few minutes he would be alone with his thoughts.

He thought about Stan.

 

…

  
  


_Sometimes when I look at you_

_I see a piano in the front yard of a tilted house stuffed with blood red-carnations spilling on the sides and over keys in some small town_

_maybe ours._

 

_Kyle, I’m confused. Why do I see this with you? I wish you would just say something so I don’t have to._

_This hurts._

 

The card was nearly soaked in Stan’s sweaty hand. Every word spit acid. He hated what he wrote. It was too weird. Too forward. Skinless.

Kenny was ransacking the buffet again. Some of the older aunts were all over him as he munched away, patting his shoulders with red, finely manicured hands. Not that Kyle wasn’t getting a ton of attention either- he did so well at his reading. Didn’t mess up once. Now they were at some out of town banquet hall where they lifted Kyle up over a circle of bodies. Everything and everyone was loud, and Stan sat on the sidelines, nursing a small plate of coleslaw at a table lined with blue and gold. He still felt guilty.

Kyle was good.

The room smelled of spice and melting candles seeping into frosting, the typical birthday smells.

He shoved the card in his suit pocket and headed for the bathroom. Amidst the chaos, Kyle caught a glimpse of Stan leaving. He pushed through everyone and followed him.

“Hey, Stan!” He ran a hand along the marble countertops while he walked to his friend, who had positioned himself over the very last sink. He gave Kyle a weak smile. “You okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” he replied softly. 

He turned on the faucet and rubbed cold water in his eyes. “It’s pretty hot in there.”

“Yeah. Too many people, I guess.”

“It’s actually kinda nice. They’re all here for you.”

Kyle looked down at his toes and then back at Stan’s reflection in the mirror with a smirk. “I think they’re about to throw Kenny a Bar Mitzvah of his own.” He put his back to the counter and leaned on it, rendering him eye level with Stan.

Stan laughed, “yeah, what the hell is even happening?”

“Kenny’s a Jew now. Not by blood, but definitely by marriage because I guarantee they’re going to try and set him up with one of my cousins.” He crossed his arms. “But he went to Jewbilee with me that one time so I guess it counts.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember that. I was so pissed that my parents wouldn’t let us hang out.”

“I was too, but it’s whatever. It was a long time ago.”

“My dad was like-” Stan put a finger under his nose like a mustache and strained to make his voice sound lower, “ _you can’t just hang out with your buddy Kyle all the time.”_

Kyle wheezed, “Okay, no. That was a scary good impression, and you’re not allowed to do that ever again.”

Stan just nodded, laughing. “Sorry! But that’s what he said though.”

“I don’t understand why.”

Stan hesitated. “He said it was because people will think we’re ‘funny’.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah. I didn’t really understand what he meant then… but you can guess what it means.”

Kyle raised his eyebrows. He shifted his weight a little. “Well… to be fair. Two people can literally be standing in a room together and people will be like ‘omg I bet they’re together’.”

Uncomfortable silence. Stan rubbed his thumb on the lip of the sink. “How’s your, um, head?”

“Oh,” Kyle reached up and unpinned his yarmulke. He finger-combed some of the hair around the wound, “I need to clean it soon. But it’s fine.”

“It looks kinda weird in the mirror. With the one bald patch.”

“Meh, it’ll grow back. It was really convenient that it hit where it could be covered.”

“It would have been more convenient if I didn’t hit you at all.”

Kyle shook his head and started pinning the blue yarmulke back to his hair. A few bobby pins sticking out of his mouth, he said, “It’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“I am literally going to feel bad for forever. We’re best friends, I’m supposed to help you, not hurt you.” Stan stepped in front of his friend, “do you need help?”

“No, I’m okay. If you reach up over my head people will think we’re _funny.”_

Stan rolled his eyes, “there’s not even anyone in here. We’re alone.” Kyle patted the cap again before leaning back on the counter.

“Yeah. We should probably go… you should come dance with us, Stan.”

“Uh, that’s a no from me, dawg,” Stan replied, “I don’t even know those dances. I haven’t known what the fuck has been happening since the ceremony.” Kyle threw his head back and laughed, the bathroom light glowed down on him. “And you have cake on your face.”

Kyle’s hands immediately went to his cheeks, “where?”

“Under your jaw.” Stan reached out to his face and gently wiped off the smidge of frosting. His ring finger accidentally rested on Kyle’s lips. Neither of them moved. Stan expected the other one to draw back, like how he expected him to draw back when they held hands, but he didn’t. “I wish you would just say it,” Stan suddenly blurted.

“...what?” His face was soft under Stan’s now shaking hand.

“Nothing. Nevermind,” he pulled his hand away, but Kyle caught it at the wrist.

“What’s going on with you, dude?” Concerned, Kyle pulled his arm in. Stan sharply inhaled with his nose and shook his head fast. A few tears welled up in his eyes. “Did something happen? You’ve been kinda funky too lately.”

“No… nothing’s happened. Well, no. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to tell me?”

“I feel stuck, Kyle.”

“In regard to…?”

“It’s hard to say.”

Kyle slowly lowered Stan’s arm. He knew it was the bad arm, and he felt bad for snatching it so suddenly. “Stan. Whatever you need to say, or whatever you need to do, you just need to do it. You’ll feel better if you get it out of your system.”

Out in the hall, the music swelled suddenly. It caught the both of them off-guard. Kyle squinted at the door before looking back at Stan, who then jolted up and pushed a warm, quick kiss on his lips. Kyle stood upright, speechless.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” Stan said quietly.

More uncomfortable silence between them. Some whooping was heard from the hall. An ambulance outside.

“Did you… um, get it out of your system?”

“No. It’s still there… Kyle?”

“Yes, Stan?”

“I… really, really like you. Like, a lot. And I kinda want to kiss you again.”

Kyle opened his mouth to respond when Gerald swung the door open. Stan spun around and locked himself in the bathroom stall.

“Kyle? What are you doing?! Everyone is looking for you, come on!”

Kyle took one last look at Stan’s dress shoes underneath the stall door before walking over to his father. He didn’t know why he was hiding. They weren’t really doing anything wrong, except, Stan wanted to kiss him again.

He wanted to say yes. He would have said yes.

  
...

It was a dark, foggy morning. The air was so thick that Kyle could only see four or five feet in front of him. Memories of Saturday (only two days ago!) he had been kissed and every moment since then, the sensation, the aftermath of experimentation still had a taste on his lips. He brought a finger to the bottom one, ran it along to the corners of his mouth as he walked. Softness and warmth. Actual warmth, for once. Startled deer bounced in different directions away from him. The bus stop started to manifest before him. He could make out the sign, the ditch next to the road that was filled with glimmering rainwater, and Stan. Just Stan. Alone.

Kyle stopped.

He considered turning on his heel and running away, but Stan noticed him, teetering with his feet on the gravel. They were too close not to notice each other.

“You’re early,” Stan said, monotone, blinking hard. He wasn’t a morning person.

“So are you.”

No response. Kyle thought back to the past two nights, wide awake, cruising his fingers along his mouth, wondering what was going to happen next. He went over the bullet points in his head. They could either a) forget it ever happened. But that could lead to several avenues of problems. What if they wanted to kiss again? Every social gathering would be filled with tension. What if Stan started dating someone? He would be jealous. He _knew_ he would be jealous. Or there was b) stop being friends. No. No. He couldn’t stand the thought. Going the rest of the school years only suffering passing glances in the hallway? Going to each other’s graduation parties late and leave early? Going to their high school reunion with their wives, maybe husband even? (after all, a new branch of attraction that was peeking under the surface was just opened up) Seeing each other in the parking lot of Whole Foods, beer bellies abound, toting carts full of kids and exchanging pleasantries before Stan heads back to his red pick up truck and Kyle returns to his white Impala? No. He didn’t want it. Couldn’t stand it.

Or, there was c) be together. Maybe take things slow at first, but ultimately be together. Date. Things that couples do. He wouldn’t exactly know what couples do because of- _Rebecca._ Kyle immediately felt himself swell with guilt. He had completely forgotten about her. What would she even say?

He pulled out his phone to read their last messages:

 

**9: 07 pm- Rebecca <3: I’m going to bed now. Don’t stay up too late looking at memes ;)**

 

**9:15 pm- Kyle: I’ll do whatever I please, woman! And good night <3 Don’t let the leukocytes bite!**

 

**9:17 pm- Rebecca <3: Leukocytes are essential to the immune system. Why wouldn’t I want them to bite?**

 

**9: 20 pm- Kyle: I don’t know. I’m tired and was trying to be witty and that’s the first thing I thought that sounded like it would rhyme and be science based. Just ignore me lol**

 

**9:21 pm- Rebecca <3: lol good night**

 

**10:21 am- Kyle: Hi :)**

 

**10:22 am- Kyle: How come you’re not at school? :(**

 

**2:27 pm- Kyle: I miss you.**

 

**4:19 pm- Kyle: Are you still coming to my Bar Mitzvah?**

 

**9:20 pm- Kyle: Rebecca, I’m scared about you moving away.**

  


That was the last message. He hadn’t heard a word from her in a few days. Not even a happy birthday.

“Kyle?”

Kyle looked up from his phone to see Stan’s quizzical expression, “Yeah, Stan?”

“How are the stitches?”

“Oh,” Kyle brought a hand up to the back of his head. The stitches were still covered by the yarmulke. “It’s okay. Kind of weird to sleep on though.”

“I’m sorry,” Stan looked down at the gravel. He sucked in his cheeks, “do you hate me?”

Kyle almost laughed, “no, dude! It was an accident!”

“What about the other thing?”

“What do you mean about ‘the other thing’?”

“Do you hate me for that?” The sky was starting to lighten up a little, the fog somewhat easier to sift through. Kyle took a step closer, staring into the side of Stan’s small and troubled face. He put his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth to say ‘no’, but Stan continued: “I’m sorry that I threw that on you so randomly. I understand-” his voice broke, “I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Kyle looked down at his boots. Looked at the deep cracks in the street, potholes the shapes of continents. “So, what are you saying, Stan? It was just random? You don’t… you don’t actually like me?”

They looked at each other. “Kyle-”

In the distance, a familiar voice shouted at them: “HEY, FELLAS!”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Kyle quickly glanced behind his shoulder. Butters was still far away enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear them if they talked softly. He turned to Stan. “What? Hurry, tell me…”

Stan looked around again before leaning in slightly closer, “Kyle, I would-” Kenny suddenly appeared behind Stan. He could tell by Kyle’s eyes darting quickly to the side and then back to Stan’s face with urgency. Carefully, softly, sincerely, he finished: “I would hold your hand if I could.”

Kyle sucked in his breath. Butters clapped his hand down on Kyle’s bony shoulder, and took his place where Cartman used to be. Kenny stood on his own, He peered at the rest of them, but said nothing. Kyle feared that he may have heard what Stan said, but didn’t want to ask. If Kenny wasn’t saying anything, he felt, then neither should he. In the distance, the sounds of the grumbling bus was heard barrelling down the road.

_A, b, or c. Kyle. A, b, or c._

He felt like he needed to make a decision there and now. In this moment, frozen by the side of the road, the four of them entrapped in a metaphorical snowglobe, about to be shaken by the grubby and callused hands of Time, he had to choose. _A, b, or c._

 _Life isn’t a multiple choice test,_ he thought suddenly. Another stronger voice in his mind took over: _There’s no set equation to anything, ever. It’s all in the blank white space around the text._

The bus door squeaked open and they filed in, Butters last, of course- he always let everyone else go in first. Kyle slid in next to Stan. Usually, Kenny would sit next to or near them, but strangely, he sulked to the very back of the bus and put his head down. Stan had his head down too, pressed against the seat in front of them, his hands at each side of his legs. The bus bumped along the road. Flashing fog lights lit up the corn fields; bright, dark, bright, dark. No wonder Kenny had sequestered himself in the back. He was prone to seizures.

_“I would hold your hand if I could.”_

The words swallowed him.

Kyle moved his hand slightly. He hoped it wouldn’t be too cold. Fingertips grazed over soft knuckles- Stan twitched slightly- his hand loosely wrapped around the other’s.

Even in the darkness, Kyle could tell that Stan was smiling.

...

**_June 2017 - The Night Before Stan’s Funeral_ **

 

Ashes fell to the floor, gray snowflakes, and nestled into the carpet. He picked at the bandage around his knuckles.

Kyle repeatedly pressed the lit cigarette into the underside of his arm. The same area where Stan had the paw print tattoo. It hurt, but it wasn’t enough.

_I need to wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up…_

He was sitting on the floor next to his bed, cross-legged and slumped forward. Shivers ran up and down his arms. His legs shook.

He brought the cigarette to his chapped lips. His forearm was burnt to shit. He wished he could light himself on fire altogether.

Everything was cold now.

 

…

 

“Bubbe, what are you doing awake?” Sheila caught her son rifling through the linen closet. She turned on the hallway light. He was wearing his winter jacket.

He glanced over at his mother with bloodshot eyes. She noticed his sunken cheeks.

“I’m getting another blanket,” he mumbled, “maybe two.”

“Are you really that cold?” She put her thumb and index finger over the thermostat, “it’s 70 degrees in here… but I can turn the A/C down if you want.”

“No… I don’t want to make everyone else uncomfortable.”

“I hope you’re not getting sick.”

“I might be. I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to make you something?”

“No, Ma, it’s two in the morning. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

 _That question again…_ “I am.” He reached up to the top shelf and pulled down an old _Lion King_ blanket.

“You haven’t been sleeping at all, have you?”

Closing his arms around the blanket, he looked down at the green carpet and sighed. “No… I can’t. I’ve tried.”

“I’m really worried about you, Kyle.” She put her hand on his head and finger-combed his hair, “we’re all worried for you.”

“I can’t stop thinking about Stan,” he clutched the blanket tighter to his chest. “I want to die.”

Sheila grabbed her son and pulled him into a hug.

 

…

 

“We shouldn’t be drinking coffee this early,” Sheila poured the dark roast into a tall mug for Kyle, which read ‘ _Good Morning! This is God, I will be handling your problems today_!’, “but this bag is about to expire anyway.”

Kyle said nothing. He just drank.

“Uh, don’t you want cream?”

“No cream,” he said firmly.

“I don’t know how both you and your father can just guzzle it black like that.”

Kyle shrugged, “This doesn’t apply to dad, but black coffee and cigarettes are kind of an aesthetic. Maybe that’s why.”

Sheila sat across from him at their dining room table with her own smaller mug. Years of family dinners had left fork scratches, some rings from when Kyle and Ike would forget to use coasters. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Sorry.”

They slowly raised their cups to their mouths at the same time and drank. Sheila cleared her throat.

“You know, I was terrified when you were born,” she said.

“Terrified? Of what?”

“You were so small and I was petrified that the slightest thing would break you. I was a young mom and you’re my first baby, it’s never _not_ terrifying.” She took another sip and made a face, “Ugh, bitter.” Another ounce of coconut milk was poured.

“Even the months leading up to your birth was just littered with nightmares about anything and everything going wrong,” she continued, “When you finally did come, I was a wreck. For the first month or so, my emotions were so out of whack. It wasn’t post-partum or anything like that. But whenever you cried, I cried. But you cried a lot and I was convinced that I wasn’t feeding you enough or keeping you warm enough…

Even just a trip to the grocery store was so stressful. Every time, without fail, there were always people who wanted to look at your or touch your hair- and it took so much effort to just tell people to leave us alone. No one wants complete strangers touching their baby, but some people have no sense of boundaries. I was paranoid that someone was going to snatch you that if I needed to reach out in the freezer aisle, I would physically take you out of the cart and hold you close. I probably looked insane but I wanted to protect you.

I wanted to protect you from everything. I never wanted you to have to feel anything besides happiness.

But as you got older, the more I realized that I couldn’t.

I’ve had to let you discover sadness… anger… love. Grief. All on your own. All I could do was back off and just make sure that you have a safe place to come back to.

You are your own man now, Kyle. But I wish I could just… wave a wand and take all of this pain away from you.”

Kyle was gripping his mug now. “Ma… I love you.”

“I love you too, bubbe,” she wiped away at her under eyes. “Just please know that you’re not alone. I haven’t seen you cry at all the past week, and that’s okay, you do what you need to do. But you’ve got me so worried, especially after what happened with the mirror…”

“I know, I’m sorry about that. I’ll get you another one… I’m just… I don’t know. I just feel numb. Like it hasn’t settled in yet.”

“That’s normal, Kyle. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know if I can go to his funeral,” he stared down into the coffee.

“You should at least try, Kyle. We’ll all be there with you. Everyone.”

He licked his lips and took another long drink. It burned his throat. He didn’t mind.

Suddenly, Sheila got off the chair and started fumbling in one of the kitchen drawers until she pulled out a large white envelope, already opened. She walked back over to Kyle with it. “You got this a few weeks ago,” she said, “but I was too upset to give it to you. Your father wanted me to wait before confronting you.”

“What is it?”

“A welcome package. From the University of Central Florida.”

…

 

Kyle climbed over the frame of his best friend’s window in the dark. His feet hit the floor right away. If he could sleep at all, he wanted to sleep in Stan’s bed. But looking at it, he felt it was too big for just him. Without turning on any lights, he found the old mahogany dresser.

Jeans, boxers, socks, his favorite Butcher Babies tee- all arranged on his side of the bed. A flattened ghost.

Kyle slid under the covers. The scent of citrus on the pillow overtook him and he rubbed his cheek against it like a desperate, lonely dog. Seeing the clothes laid out made him feel like he was next to a shell, but he wanted it. Wanted to take it all in again, close his eyes and feel where Stan’s body used to be, where he would reach out and run his hand over his belly button and up his chest.

He pulled out his phone. The last messages he sent made him sick to his stomach. He scrolled up and up until the words blurred and finally stopped sometime in early April:

 

**3:01 pm - Kyle: My mom just commented that my face smells like bleach… lol**

**3:03 pm - Stan: RIP**

**3:03 pm - Kyle: Whaddyer dewin’**

**3:04 pm - Stan: Poopin’**

**3:06 pm - Kyle: Oh, neat. Push real hard for me**

**3:06 pm - Stan: Lol don’t have to, it’s pretty runny**

**3:07 pm - Kyle: God damn it lol**

**5:37 pm - Stan: Hey**

**5:42 pm - Kyle: Wut**

**5:43 pm - Stan: I love you.**

**5:43 pm - Kyle: I love you toooOOOooooOOoooo**

**5:44 pm - Stan: :) ya cute**

**5:45 pm - Kyle: Noooooooooo**

**8:31 pm - Stan: What was even the thought process behind that**

**8:33 pm - Kyle: Fur what?**

**8:35 pm - Stan: Oh wait sorry, i thought i was replying to our snapchat convo lol**

**8:36 pm - Kyle: Oh lol. Yeah idk why Ike wanted to jump off the roof like that. That trampoline is so small. There was def no thought process at all**

He stopped there. It was too painful. But he wanted to hear his voice again. Just his voice, uninterrupted by his own grating responses.

He pressed “call.”

It went straight to voicemail. Not like he expected an answer.

“Hi, this is Stan Marsh. Sorry I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m available. Thank you!”

So formal. He had been applying for jobs.

Kyle hung up. Called again. “Hi, this is Stan…” He listened, snuggled up to the pillow. Pulled the comforter tighter.

Hung up. Called again. “Hi, this is Stan…”

Kyle’s fingers slowly opened up as finally started drifting off, and dreamed that Stan was holding him, breathing onto his hands, keeping them warm.

  
  
  


 


	7. Monstrance Clock

**_October 29, 2016_ **

 

The mirror had toothpaste splatters all over it. Black and white face paint and non-prescription contacts were bundled in a small Party City bag on the marble counter. A breeze whistled through the open window. The windchime that Sharon Marsh had hung from the bathroom ceiling rattled in pleasant, oaky tones. Both Stan and Kyle were confused as to why she chose the bathroom for a windchime, especially since it was made of layered brass and tiny wooden spoons. It would make more sense in a kitchen. But no one dared confront her about it. There were more important things.

A painted wood panel that read BLESS THIS HOME in blue calligraphy that was nailed above the vanity-style mirror was illuminated by the yellowing light bulbs. Almost all the bathrooms in South Park looked like this- the 70s having unprotected, unnatural sex with a western ranch. Floors creaked or had holes in them. Depending on whose house you were in, the tub would be stained orange from well water.

The carpeting in the bathroom was long enough so that Kyle could squeeze it between his toes even though he had socks on. Black socks. His whole outfit was black. Soon it would be covered in black, satin robes.

He gripped the frame of the sink and sighed at this reflection in the dirtied mirror. Today had been hard. Harder than most other days.

But he made sure that the handprint from his face had faded before escaping to Stan’s house.

The Marsh family was out for the night, doing one of those ‘Survive the Night’ camps at a “haunted” farm a few miles away. Kyle couldn’t imagine forking over $100 just to have to deal with Randy overreacting to every single thing all night. Stan couldn’t either, and that’s why he was downstairs, going through the family costume box. Stan had his heart set on the Frida Kahlo costume, but it was too big, and his father had done it the year before anyway.

They were due in an hour for Token’s Halloween party.

Kyle opted to dress as Papa Emeritus Ⅲ from the band Ghost, hence the face paint and contacts. He glanced over at the gold-encrusted Pope hat, stitched with a “G” that also doubled as an upside-down cross. Kyle looked up at the BLESS THIS HOME sign, bemused. He didn’t think God would exactly strike him down just then. If he was going to do it, he would have done it a long god damn time ago.

Unpacking the Party City bag, he called out to Stan: “Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Should I do the contacts first or the make-up first?”

A pause, and then “I think you should do the contacts first instead of second ‘cause you might irritate your eyes if you get make-up residue on the contacts.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kyle looked at his now seemingly dumb reflection in the mirror. The answer was so obvious. “Good thinking. I definitely don’t want to go fucking blind today.”

“Yeah, no… ooh, yes!” It sounded like Stan found a costume.

Carefully, Kyle put in the bright blue contacts, one pupil much smaller than the other. In the dim lighting, he looked like a completely different person. A demon.

“Well, that’s the point I suppose,” he muttered to himself. He opened up the face paint tray with a crack and used the tiny plastic brush to start outlining black around his eyes. He painted over his eyebrows, drawing them at a downward angle, giving him a permanently angry glare for the night.

“Hey Kyle,” Stan’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the stairs, “did you eat yet?”

Kyle paused. “Are you we not eating at Token’s?”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s probably just going to be finger food. Like, rice krispie treats that look like mummies ‘n shit.”

Kyle laughed. Token’s mom was such a Pinterest addict and he could very much envision it. “I’m not hungry. But you go ahead and eat if you are.”

“When’s the last time you ate though?”

_This again…_

“I had a bagel this morning,” Kyle replied, turning on the faucet and putting his hands under the warm water. It felt good. He opened his mouth to lip sync Stan’s next words, because he had heard them so many times before:

“That’s not healthy, Kyle.”

Truthfully, neither of them were a perfect picture of health, but they continually jabbed at each other: _I’m about to rip that cigarette out of your mouth, Kyle_ or _Remember what we said, Stan? Ice cubes. Put an ice cube on your wrist instead._

Stan rummaged around in the kitchen cabinets for a bit before trekking upstairs to Kyle, who was drying his hands. He stood in the open bathroom doorway. “Do you want this?” Stan held up a box of Suddenly Pasta.

Kyle dramatically jumped back and gasped, clutching his hand over his heart.

“What?!” Stan asked, wide-eyed.

“It scared me,” Kyle said, grinning, “It was just so… _sudden.”_

“You’re actually the worst,” Stan rolled his eyes with a smile, “Your eye make-up looks good so far.”

“Really? Thank you. You look really fucking cute, by the way.” He did. Stan was dressed as Alex from _A Clockwork Orange_. Everything from the cap to the white leotard and the pelvic piece, a full-on Droog. The look really suited him, even though Stan was the complete opposite of the character he was dressed up as. “You should kiss me now, Stan, before I put the bottom half of the face on.”

Stan rolled his eyes again before putting the spooky box of Suddenly Pasta on the counter, next to the Pope hat. He put his arms on Kyle’s shoulders and wrapped him in a kiss.

“The contacts look cool too,” Stan said when they pulled apart.

Kyle pushed him back against the counter, ran a hand over Stan’s chest, “do you want to hear a _really heavy motherfucker_?” He asked in a terrible Swedish accent, trying to capture Papa’s stage presence from the last time they saw Ghost in concert.

“Oh, stop it,” Stan said, laughing, “we don’t have time to, uh, “monster mash” right now, dude- whoa, what the fuck happened to your wrist?”

 _Fuck…_ Kyle forgot that his jacket sleeve had covered it earlier. Now he was in a tee shirt and the purple and red marks, signs of someone gripping him too tightly, was in plain view.  “It’s nothing,” Kyle said. He started kissing Stan’s neck and collarbone.

“Kyle, stop.” Stan held Kyle’s wrist up to his face. Kyle regarded him with a leveled gaze. He started sweating a little. “Did your dad do this to you?” Stan asked quietly in the tone of a concerned brother and the expression of a vengeful lover.

“Sometimes we have good days,” was all Kyle could spit out.

Stan ran three fingers gently over the vein on the bottom of his boyfriend’s wrist, “Those good days seem to be far and few between.”

“It… it has been getting worse,” Kyle admitted, “but only because I’ve started sticking up for myself.”

“I’m so worried about you, Kyle.”

“Please don’t. Just take care of yourself, please.”

“Your dad is fucked up.”

“I know.”

Stan leaned back a little. “Would you rather just stay home tonight? I don’t think anyone will notice if we blow this party off.”

“No, no, we can still go.”

“It’s okay if you’re not feeling up to it though.”

“I think it would help me actually if we went. It’ll be a nice distraction.”

Stan frowned, “What did you guys fight about this time?”

Kyle sighed. He wiped away at some of the paint that got on Stan’s cheek. “I told him that I don’t want to go to law school.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah, I just wanted to get it over with.”

“Did you tell him you want to do marine biology instead?”

Kyle scoffed, “No, he was so fucking adamant about the fucking law school thing that I couldn’t get a word in about anything else. He just fucking flipped.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“No, Stan, it’s okay. It won’t be much longer now.” He stepped back against the towel rack, felt the fabric brush against the back of his arms. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“I love you, Kyle.”

“I love you too, Stan.”

They smiled weakly at each other.

“Well,” said Stan, grabbing the pasta box, “you’re going to eat. I don’t care if we’re going to be late. Not that it takes long anyway, but-”

“Stan?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just… for just being here.”

“Well, I live here, Kyle.”

“You know what I mean.”

Stan just smiled again. He crossed over the threshold between the bathroom and hallway before turning around to face Kyle, “You should really consider moving in with us. You know how cozy the basement is… we can stay down there. It’ll be kind of like having our own place.”

“My parents would never allow it. They’d send a SWAT team after me.”

“What about when you turn 18? It won’t be long now.”

Behind the contacts, Kyle’s eyes lit up a little, “Maybe.” He bit his lip. “Actually, yes. I would like that a lot.”

“We’ll just do everything backward,” said Stan, “We’ll move in together, have kids, and _then_ get married.”

“Or we could move in together, have kids, get divorced, and then get married,” Kyle played along.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Stan laughed. He looked at Kyle one last time before heading back downstairs.

Kyle picked up the plastic brush again. Filling in the shape around his eyes, he quietly sang to himself: _Come together, together as one. Come together, for Lucifer’s son…_

 

**A/N: Hi, another short chapter. I just wanted to have a little Halloween bit because it’s my favorite holiday. And I don’t know why Kyle has so many problems but I promise it’ll start getting better for him.**

 

**For both of them.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Monstrance Clock" by Ghost- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6oa_nbgE8M8


	8. Life Eternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't updated since Halloween and I hate myself for it. School just took over my life and I didn't have time to work on this, which really sucked because I love writing this story and I'm so jazzed by those of you who are reading, favoriting, or commenting on the text.  
> This bit is some filler and I apologize for that, but there's more to come soon!  
> Love,  
> Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay

“Can you hear me say your name forever?  
Can you see me longing for you forever?”

-GHOST, “Life Eternal”

 

**November 9, 2008**

 

The lengthy, ice cold glass dagger stared at him. It intimidated him. Kenny McCormick karate chopped the fucker out of his path. Thick ice struck against the bony surface of his hand and spun hard to the ground, plunking a barrel shape void into the sleet. He hated icicles or anything else that rhymed with “sickle.”

His foot slipped off the tree branch when Eric Cartman’s piercing voice shot up through the crisp winter air, “Watch what the fuck you’re doing, asshole! That could have hit me!”

“It would have served you right, dick!” Kenny gripped the section above him and spread his knees farther apart to gain a better stance. His heart was thumping fast. Despite the chill, he was toiling from stress. Normally, he could mount and jump from buildings with ease- but buildings are so much more different. Buildings are man-made structures. Nature has its own idea of structure. One of beauty interwoven with chaos. He was nervous, yes, ascending this ultra large tree, but he wasn’t about to let Cartman know. “It didn’t even land near you, so shut your whore mouth!”

Kenny eyed his little orange parka, strangled in the branches a few feet away. Cartman, to show how much stronger his throwing arm was becoming, had thrown Kenny’s coat so high up, it became caught in the branches, and they had nothing else to throw up there to chuck it out.

From a nearby sidewalk, Stan Marsh saw Cartman standing alone, howling profanities to the sky. Convinced that he had ultimately lost it, he approached with caution, hands stuck solidly in his coat pockets.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying his best to sound neither very interested nor too accusatory.

“Kenny’s being an asshole,” replied Cartman, not even looking at Stan.

“I’m being an asshole?” Kenny screeched, jarring Stan to look up at his shivering friend, clad in cheap snow pants and boots, and a raggedy Def Leppard shirt with stained armpits, “You’re a god damn cyst on the ass of the world, Cartman!”

Stan frowned, “you can get cysts on your ass?”

“I don’t know,” Cartman shrugged, “Ah, Kenny, the word you’re looking for is a boil. You get boils on your ass.”

“Whatever,” Kenny muttered.

“And you’re the one who’s more likely to get boils because you don’t fucking shower.”

“Fuck you!” Kenny spat, firing a sizable lump directly at Cartman. The ball of saliva broke over his face.

“Oh, sick!” Cartman hastily wiped the splatter away, gagging as he did. “Stan, did you fucking see that? I probably have the god damn plague now, gross!”

“Well, that’ll be fucking fitting because you’re a rat!” Kenny retorted.

“Ay!”

“Um, Kenny,” Stan interjected, “I think you should stop. You’re too high up… it’s not worth it.”

“It’s the only coat I have.”

He continued to shuffle along the branch, closer to the tree trunk.

“You can have my coat,” Stan unbuttoned himself, “I’ll just say I lost it and my parents will get me a new one.”

Kenny stopped for a moment to consider it.

“Oh, how charitable of you, Stan,” Cartman squealed in the mocking tone of a shady housewife.

Kenny retracted and placed a foot on an adjacent, thinner branch.

“Thanks but no thanks, dude. I got this.”

From below, Stan groaned and Cartman continued to rattle off derogatory comments about poor people.

A crow settled on the branch in front of Kenny.

They glared at each other. The fowl glowed in the pleasant winter sunlight, its feathers showcasing dark tones of blue.

“Go away,” Kenny whispered. It didn’t obey him. It cocked its head at the 10-year-old with inquisitive amber eyes. Kenny glanced at his friends. They didn’t seem to notice the bird. Not that they would care.

But he wondered if it was really there, or if it was one of the crows he saw when he went to the “nightmare place.”  
He stopped thinking about it. Get the coat. Fuck that bird. And fuck Cartman. He wanted to pummel him when he got back.

Steadying himself by clutching the branch above him with both hands, he kicked out his other foot. Now he held onto the branch above and behind him, his body in an uncomfortable slash position."

Kenny, don’t!” Stan called out.

“What? I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re stuck.”

“I’m fine!” Kenny repeated. But his shoulder blades were stiff and his hips buckled.

“Yeah, we totally believe you,” Cartman quipped.

“Oh, shut up Cartman! This is your fault.” snapped Stan. He looked up into the gnarled tree. “Kenny, I’m coming up after you!”

“Stan, no-”

Stan was at the base of the tree, jumping up for the closest branch. Kenny tried to move again.

He noticed that the crow left. He didn’t even hear it fly away.

His foot slipped. Trying to regain stability, and in a flash of a blind frenzy, he bit down heavy on his tongue.

“Fuck!”

The metallic quality of blood oozed over the bottom of his mouth and he let go.

“Kenny, no!”

The boys watched, horrified, stuck as wax models, as Kenny fell backward screaming.

The shriek tore away when the back of his neck struck a large branch, breaking it in two. His lifeless body struck another branch on the way before falling into the soft bed of snow, next to the cylinder grave of the icicle.

Stan backed up against the tree, arms splayed out, stared with his mouth open.

Cartman approached the mangled Kenny. Blood dribbled across the edge of his lip. Eyes, pale and blue, still open.

“You killed him…” Stan’s weakening voice fluttered and crumbled around the two.

Cartman sunk to his knees beside Kenny’s twitching body, his bulbous face suffused with shame, shock- taking in the truth. Outside the timbers, the roads were mute. No one saw besides them, and now they were cornered. In death, he had them trapped.

Stan followed, collapsing to his knees beside the now still body.

“I didn’t mean to,” Cartman said faintly. Slumped over, shoulders seemingly larger. Stan ran a palm over Kenny’s eyelids.

“Okay,” Stan removed his coat.

“Okay? Just okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” he drew his coat over Kenny’s chest as if he were tucking him into bed. A final rest.

“It wasn’t my fault, Stan!”

“Yes, it was,” Stan leveled his glowering gaze at who he now looked at as a former friend, “You have to own up to this.”

Cartman wrung his hands, “What do you mean?”

Stan suddenly stood, bare arms trembling, “I’m telling Kyle. And then we’re calling the police.

“Don’t fucking tell Kyle!”

“I’m going,” Stan huffed. He shifted toward the way of the roadway before a tight grip clamped his wrist. Cartman spun him around and clutched Stan’s neck with the other hand.

“I’ll kill you too, Stan,” he growled between gritted teeth.

Nausea overtook Stan, swelling in his breast and mouth, gagging under the abnormally strong grasp and scratchy texture of the yellow gloves. Dizzy and stupefied, he grasped at Cartman’s arms, trying to unclasp his neck.

“Y-You’re insane,” Stan rasped in between gags. The grip tightened.

“I’m not getting in trouble for this. We’re leaving him here,” Cartman shook the boy angrily, “And if anyone asks us, we don’t know what happened, okay? We were at the other park playing. And if you tell anyone anything different, including Kyle, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll kill you _both_.”

Tears cascaded down Stan’s reddening cheeks, making beads that coiled over Cartman’s fingers. His vision dissolved in and out, superimposed with fizzing pink and yellow blotches, head turning to styrofoam. He peeked over at Kenny’s corpse cradled in the snow, and a staggering sense of anger, a revulsion of an injustice rose in him. With the measure of energy he had left, he raised a knee and delivered a striking blow to his assaulter’s abdomen, underneath the ribs. He could just barely feel the bone of the tip of his boot. Cartman’s fingers loosened as he doubled in pain. Both of them fell to the ground, coughing.

Stan propped himself on his elbows and crawled toward the neighborhood, leaving behind a heaving Cartman.

“You’ve… always… been a… bully… Cartman,” Stan managed to say in between raspy breaths, “And now, and now, you’re a… murderer.”  
No reply from the other, folded in a fetal position next to Kenny, but Stan knew he was heard.

With a groan, Stan hoisted himself up and ran away, kicking up snow with each forceful step.

He couldn’t follow. He hurt too much.

This is it. It’s all over.

A noise- breaking wet celery resounded behind him. Cartman jolted and swung over.

Kenny was moving again.

But it wasn’t normal.

There were lumps moving under his skin, following each other in synchronicity akin to railway routes. His legs flopped crazily, and his chest swelled. Cartman frantically scooted back. To him, Kenny looked like a rag doll or a glitchy video game character. Or both.

Kenny’s face turned toward the sky. He blinked once. Twice. With a long exhale, he sat up, looked at Stan’s coat, confused, fingering the red collar.

“How come I’m not in my bed?” He whispered to himself. Cartman gasped. Kenny’s eyes snapped to him, “Eric?”

Cartman just shook his head, embracing himself.

“Uh, I’m sorry… I fell asleep.”

Cartman continued to stare, fixing to say something, but the only that came out was a petrified squeak. Kenny turned to stand up but instantly recoiled. Spine, pinned with handfuls of invisible daggers, separating it, one vertebra at a time.

“Fuck! That fucking hurts!”

It wasn’t usually this way. To die, yes. But to host the sensation of his undoing the next day was newborn and terrifying. He tried to steady his breathing until the pain subsided and looked at Cartman with wet eyes.

“Eric, what happened? What did you see?”  
  
…  
  
It didn’t take long for Stan to reach Kyle’s house. As his feet pounded on the alkaline concrete, arms pumping, he couldn’t recall why he was rushing. Now he was standing out in air, his mind dull.

Sheila came out, encased in a weighty poncho, rubbing her hands. She recognized the boy standing on the sidewalk, looking dumbstruck.  
“Hello, Stanley.”

“What?”

“I said ‘hello’,” she walked out to the mailbox and opened the small metal door.

“Oh, hi,” he said delicately.

She eyed him before tugging at a small bundle of business envelopes. “Ugh, bills and more bills. Don’t ever grow up, Stan,” she gestured at him with the stack in her large but friendly hands.

“Okay.”

She closed the mailbox and looked at him again, “Where’s your coat, bubbe?”

Stan shrugged, “I guess I just stepped out. I guess… I guess I didn’t need it.”

“Ah. Well, it’s nice to step out for some air now and then,” she started back toward the house, “You can come in if you want. Kyle just got back from grocery shopping with his father.”

“Oh, okay. Sure. Yes.”

He followed Sheila into the house, his mind trying hopelessly to remember… remember why he couldn’t.  
  
…

 

**June 8, 2017**

 

“I love this one,” Kenny said, holding out a typed note. He was squatting cross-legged on Stan’s bed while Kyle lay on the floor, sifting through photographs for a picture board.

“Which one?”

“ _My father was a hard worker/he wore suits like a fish wears scales_.”

"Oh,” Kyle glanced up at him, gripping a few photos of them playing _Guitar Hero._ “He must’ve liked it too if he actually typed it.” He placed them down on the teal carpet and dug into the cardboard box further, dragging out sheets of paper lined in crayon. “Holy crap.”

“What?”

“It’s that project that we did in the fourth grade. The one about South Park being a hotspot for hiding alcohol during the Prohibition… Look at the little beer bottle you drew,” he said, holding up the art for Kenny to see and be exposed to the same nostalgia and sadness.

“Oh, yeah, I remember that. I can’t believe he kept that.”

“I can,” Kyle smiled sadly. “He kept everything.”

He continued shuffling through old photos while Kenny silently read Stan’s poetry.

“It’s neat how he wrote from your point of view.”

“Huh? My point of view?”

“It’s really obvious that this is about you… _the other son_? Stan doesn’t have a brother.”

“Who’s to say it’s not about you? You have a brother, too.”

“My dad doesn’t wear suits like a fish wears scales. That’s definitely your dad. My dad wears jumpsuits like… giraffes… wear… I don’t know. I can’t word things. I‘m not Stan.”

Kyle sighed. His thumb grazed over a picture of the four of them at the carnival- at least, it was four, but Cartman was ripped away, riding on the carousel. In the picture, they were all laughing, but Kenny was smiling peacefully in the backdrop.

“You say things only when it's necessary,” he said, “Most people talk just to hear themselves talk. There’s actual meaning behind everything you say. I’ve always liked that about you.”

Kenny put the paper aside, shifting, taking in the sudden compliment and feeling as though he didn’t deserve it.

“I think people just assume I’m quiet because I have nothing to contribute.”

Kyle leaned over and handed Kenny the photo. He took it with a timid hand.

“I’ve never thought that. Still water runs deep, Ken.”

Tearing himself away from the urge to climb down and pin him, Kenny looked away, adjusting his ponytail, making it a tighter so that the blond tendrils tugged his scalp. Pain as a distraction. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle was checking his phone, absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck.

_I’m a bad person._

A break to the silence: “I have to get going,” Kyle announced.

_Wait, we were having a moment…_

“Where?”

“To the airport… to pick up Wendy.”

“Testaburger?”

“Yes.”

“Wow… That's a name I haven't heard in a while. Um, is she staying with you?”

“Oh, no. She’s staying with Stan’s parents,” Kyle stood and looked around the floor, at all the carnage of memories.

“That sounds like it’s going to be an awkward car ride… do you need me to come?”

“It’s okay. I really don’t mind. I actually invited her but then my parents said she couldn’t stay at our house... so yeah, it was a whole big thing.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You‘ve got enough on your plate.”

“So do you! Your plate is fucking broken, Kyle.”

Kyle pursed his lips, “I’m just… trying to do the right things.”

“By putting all the stress on yourself?”

“No, I… I don’t know,” Kyle stammered. Quickly, he snatched his keys up from the dresser, “I really need to get going. You can pick out some photos… but leave room in case Wendy has some too.”

Kenny sighed, “Okay, Kyle. Drive safe.”

Tugging on his left Converse, the 18-year-old Kyle with unwashed hair, a Trevor Something tee, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and a heavy heart, gave one last friendly glance before turning around and heading out. The back of his shirt read “DIE WITH YOU” in bold, black lettering.

“I hope it doesn‘t come to that,” Kenny uttered quietly to himself, the phrase branded in his brain. “I hope to fucking God it doesn’t come to that.”  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life Eternal" by Ghost- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU6ZN_CJICo


	9. Killing Me

“In the end I’ll be the one who’s killing me.

It’s killing me. It’s killing me. It’s killing me.”

- _ The Cleansing,  _ BUTCHER BABIES

  
  


**January 2017**

 

Kenny pulled up to the bus stop in a cloud of ice and dirt with a blue pickup truck that had a squealing belt and a rusting hood. The thing was old and ugly; smelled of McDonald’s, sex, and weed (not even the “black ice” air freshener could save it) but it was reliable and that was all he needed. Taking girls out was different though. He tried to clean it up when that happened, but as soon they saw that monstrosity from 1995, it became instantly evident that all he needed, at the most, was fifteen minutes of their time. And those minutes contained no eye contact or kissing. 

They were suspicious of him. His mind was always somewhere else. With someone else.

_ Girls: they know everything,  _ he mused with a half-smile, staring at the only boy at the bus stop who hadn’t noticed that someone had pulled up. His headphones were in and his face was craned over his phone. Dressed in all black- the Phantogram hoodie, basketball shorts, decrepit Adidas; except for his hat. The hat was red and blue, as always, it had stretched out with his head. This morning was especially stingingly cold and bitter, but he didn’t so much as shiver.

Kenny rolled down his window and yelled: “Hey!”

Startled, Stan fell back a little. Realizing who it was, he took out his headphones.

“Hey, Kenny!” he grinned, “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah… How are you?”

“I’m great, doing great.” A lie. “How are you?”

“Good!” Another lie. “Where’s your mensch on a bench?”

Stan laughed while wrapping the earbuds around his phone, “I’m gonna start calling him that now, thanks. Kyle’s sick.”

“Oh, that sucks,” Kenny tried not to sound overly concerned, “I heard that the flu is making the rounds.”

“It’s not-” Stan started to say, shoving his phone in his back pocket, “It’s not the flu.”

Kenny shrugged, “Well, okay. Whatever. You wanna ride to school or something?”

“Um, sure. If it’s okay with you.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t. Get in.”

“Okay. Thanks, Ken.”

“Sure,” he watched as Stan crossed over the front of the truck and opened the passenger door. “Don’t worry about the stuff on the floor.”

The black flooring was covered in old receipts, pop bottles, gas station coffee cups and various other kinds of wadded up trash that no one would care to know about. 

“Oh, it’s okay,” Stan hoisted himself up into the seat, went to put his backpack on the floor, hesitated, then elected to keep it on his lap. 

“So…” said Kenny, shifting gears while Stan fumbled with the seatbelt, “What’s with the fuckboy outfit?”

“Huh?”

“A hoodie with basketball shorts? That’s fuckboy culture right there. Stop stealing my culture”

Stan laughed, “Oops.”

“I’m serious,” but he was laughing too, doing his best to drive around the larger potholes. The last thing he needed was to have another tire pop off.

“You’re gonna have to take that up with Kyle, these are his shorts.”

“No wonder they look so long on you.”

“Shut up, I pulled them up as much as I could.”

He looked out the window at the passing cornfields, wondering how lost he could get if he walked through them long enough. Maybe he could lay down there. Maybe no one would come looking for him if he went missing. The hissing static of Kenny’s radio interrupted the intrusive thought: “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper.”

_ All our times have come _

_ Here but  now they’re gone _

_ Seasons don’t fear the reaper _

_ Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain, we can be like they are _

 

_ Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper… _

 

Repeatedly, Kenny brought his palm down on the dashboard to clear the static. As if he had the power to. After swerving around another pothole, it cleared into crisp sound and Kenny placed his hand back on the wheel.

He cleared his throat, “So, what’s wrong with Kyle?”

Stan took a deep breath but said nothing for a few seconds. Kenny wondered at what point Stan would finally just admit that he knew. Admit that he knew and punch him square in the face, spit on him, call him a homewrecker or a dick or whatever and demand that he never so much as look at Kyle again. Instead, Stan wrapped his arms around his backpack and sighed.

“If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else,” he said.

“Stan, I don’t  _ know _ anyone else. Just you guys. And I barely see you.”

“I just don’t want to embarrass Kyle. He’s going through a lot.”

“Anything I can do to help?” He swerved around another pothole, spraying gravel all behind him.

“Not really… It’s just… his anxiety is so bad right now. Like, his chest pains are almost unbearable and he can’t sleep. I was up with him pretty much all night.”

“Christ, that sounds like a nightmare.”

“He’s been getting those, too.”

“Any idea why?”

“Well, he’s got anxiety already, but it’s like, amplified because he’s trying to quit smoking and I can see how much pain he’s in… it just sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay… it just feels like I’m dating a completely different person. He’s been so… angry.”

“Dude, quitting is hard. I can’t say I blame him.”

“I really can’t either. He’s finally sleeping now.”

“What, did you give him melatonin or something?”

“No, but that’s a good idea,” Stan looked out the window again as they rode into town. He wasn’t about to go into the gory details with Kenny about how he had to cup a hand over Kyle’s mouth while he went down on him to keep him from being too loud. The Broflvoski’s didn’t know that the boys were in Kyle’s room all night, and that wasn’t the way they wanted to be found out. At one point he told Kyle to  _ shut up _ and it only made him louder. 

Kenny saw the look on Stan’s face, secretively voyeuristic, and decided to leave it, “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know.”

Stan smirked at him.

After a moment of silence, driving past Tweek Bros. and the South Park Mall, Stan spoke up again: “I think he’s stressed out about it being senior year, too. I mean, I understand the stress, but I really just want to get this the fuck over with. I’m sick of high school.”

“You could just drop out like me!”

“Shit, I might.”

Kenny laughed, “No, don’t. You only have a few more months left. It’ll go by fast.”

“I hope so,” Stan scratched at his knees, “And he really doesn’t have anything to worry about. He’s going to be successful in whatever he does…”

“What does he even want to do?”

“Well… he  _ says _ he doesn’t know. Everyone expects him to be a lawyer but I  _ know _ he wants to be a scientist. Like, I’ve seen the applications.”

“I’ll admit, I thought Kyle was going to go to law school too.”

“He doesn’t want to be a lawyer because he thinks it made his dad scummy.”

“Dude, his dad was probably already scummy before he even became a lawyer.”

“Word.”

The radio faded into a Carly Simon song and Kenny turned it up a little. 

Stan cleared his throat, “So, anything new with you? Are you seeing anyone?”

“I can’t really have a relationship right now."

"Oh."

Kenny shrugged, "No one’s really worth my time. I’m too busy with the shop anyway.”

“How’s it going there?”

“It’s insane,” Kenny replied, “It’s the same cars over and over again. Old cars. Old cars that aren’t worth putting any more money into but people do it anyway. I replaced this guy’s transmission last month and now I’m doing his fuel pump.”

“Wow…”

“But it pays the bills, so I can’t really complain. Sometimes Karen even works at the front desk after school. I mean, I don’t actually make her work or anything. I make her do her homework. It’s hard for her to concentrate at our house… it gets kinda loud there.”

“Yeah…”

“But I really don’t want to get into that… what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Kyle’s going to college… what about you?”

“Oh. I haven’t decided yet. I don’t know what I really want to do yet.”

They finally pulled up in front of Park County High School and Kenny shifted into park. “Well, you can always come work with me, Toolshed.”

Reaching for the door handle, Stan laughed, “Okay, okay, I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, and, tell Kyle that I said hi.”

“Why don’t you text him and tell him yourself?”

“I doubt that he wants to hear from me.”

“Of course he does. We miss you, dude.” Stan leaned over and hugged a rigid Kenny, who patted Stan gingerly on the shoulder. “Okay, I gotta go. Thanks for the ride, Ken!”

“No problem. See you around.” 

Stan jumped out, slammed the door, and gave one last wave before bolting toward the double doors of the school. Kenny examined all his former classmates that were hanging around outside from the safety of his truck. They all seemed so foreign to him now, part of a world that he never felt like he belonged in. Some of them glanced up at him.

He opened the glove compartment and grabbed a joint, lighting it with one of several dozen lighters strewn across the chariot. It didn’t take long for him to be surrounded by smoke.

A familiar blonde walked up and tapped on his window. He rolled the window down to see Bebe Stevens, hair askew in a messy bun, winged eyeliner, and striking red lipstick.

“You’re just gonna hog all that for yourself?” she asked teasingly.

“You’re right, sharing is caring,” he said, passing it to her. He watched as her lips curled around it with the same face that Stan had when he was thinking about the way he put Kyle to sleep. “You don’t really want to go to school today, do you?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Cool,” he took the joint back from her, “Get in.”

 

…

 

**Journal entry by Stan Marsh**

**(date unknown)**

**(Additional notes: bottom left corner saturated with blood stains. Presented to Private Investigator June 2017)**

**(Detective notes: This journal entry appears to be much more fragmented than Marsh’s other entries. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I’m curious to know if this is a reflection of his deteriorating mental state)**

 

_ Breathe… _

_ Blood on the concrete _

_ Livid and shaking _

_ Smash the lights _

_ Forsaken and betrayed _

_ Take me _

_ A handless clock _

_ Painted green _

_ Brown broken bells _

_ Clouds of tar _

_ Mist to coal _

_ Gravel sky _

_ To take a doll and cut it down _

_ The stuff was sewed up but fluff was all over the blue counter _

_ Sometimes I ask my mind to bring the dream back _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Cleansing" by Butcher Babies- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOombldMdUU


	10. Heart Heart Head

**_A/N:_ ** _ Hey, I would like to say thank you for sticking around and supporting this story. It means the world to me... _

_ I’ve always been an introverted person who is guarded, wary of letting people in; let alone see what I write. I’m slowly learning how to openly be myself, even if it means facing criticism or getting hurt at some point. _

_ Feeling hurt is a necessary part of life- it humanizes us, and we can’t avoid it no matter how hard we may try. I’m not condoning that we should dwell on pain, but rather, don’t push away the feeling before learning why you feel the way that you do. Experience it and grow because of it. The more you push it away, the worse it becomes, and then you’re left as a shell.  _

_ That’s where I was before I started writing this fic. I was a void, actively numbing myself to whatever pain tried to come my way until I was almost empty. Starting this fic was my last ditch effort to wake up; write through the pain of dealing with things (some of which are similar to what’s happening in this book), and learn to be in the moment again. The fact that I get to do it through South Park characters, to me, is an amazing feeling. I love the show and I love this fandom. _

_ But I digress, so I won’t bear my guts onto y’all anymore. _

_ Reading what you have commented has filled my heart with insurmountable joy that I can’t begin to describe. Just the fact that people are even reading this blows my mind. _

_ So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. _

_ Love, _

_ Kyle, Your Local Garbage Gay _

 

…

 

**Eric,**

 

**You’ll probably try to have me killed once you read this letter, but I don’t care. You took it too far this time. If that were even possible. I know you’ll aim to push further.**

**Stan’s body is here, but something in my gut tells me that a sinister presence is here, and there’s more to this than just a corpse. You’re behind everything, aren’t you?**

**The atmosphere has changed.**

**I’ve been seeing spirits everywhere I go. Some spirits I haven’t seen in years. But I’ve yet to see Stan’s, which is strange because I feel as though I should.**

**You’ve been fucking with things.**

**You’ve been fucking with us like a puppet master, safe inside your crazy cell.**

**I should have never told you about me and where I come from.**

**If I had known you would take advantage of it, I would have killed you right then and there by that tree.**

**But I felt sorry for you. You didn’t understand what you were seeing and I gave you pity though you didn’t deserve it.**

**Pity is often a privileged feeling… you feel pity for those less fortunate than you. Yet somehow** **_I_ ** **, the poor kid with the fucked up family, felt sorry for** **_you._ **

**You have no idea what you’re doing. You have to be cautious when you get involved with demonic entities. Or just not get involved at all. I was born into all that mess, but you… you just inserted yourself into a world you have no right being in.**

**They’re going to get tired of you. These creatures need strong hosts and once they drain you, they’ll move on to others.**

**I’m going to find out what really happened to Stan, and when I do, however many feet of cinder block is keeping you sheltered won’t stop me from coming for you. Consider your days numbered, asshole.**

**I’m done feeling sorry for you.**

 

**Kenny**

It wasn’t until after he sent it that he figured any mail to inmates would be read before it was actually delivered, but the content was so crazy, he supposed they would dismiss it as two loonies that don’t have anything better to write each other about.

The worst part was that whoever would be assigned to read that letter would know about Stan. A tragedy like his was bound to be dealt out like a deck of playing cards, shuffled into the hands of the media for them to pick and choose which cards they wanted to play. 

Flowers and balloons piled onto the Marsh’s lawn. Flowers were left for Kyle too, but he couldn’t look at them. Day by day, the petals turned inward, brown, dried out, left for dead. 

One morning when he went over to the Broflovski house, there was a small, Raggedy Andy doll with a noose around its neck and a note that read: “Homos burn in Hell.” With shaking hands, he picked it up from the doorstep and threw it into the street, knowing eventually someone would run it over. He never told Kyle.

Sending this letter to Cartman was the coward’s way of confronting the issue and Kenny knew it. He also knew some of this was  _ his fault _ . But the thought of coming out saying everything that needed to be said outright terrified him; he didn’t feel as if he were strong enough or smart enough to articulate in person. Hell, he didn’t think he did it well in the letter either.

The best thing he knew- the only thing he knew- was how to kill.

…

**June 10, 2017**

**The Morning of Stan’s Funeral**

**5:13 a.m.**

_ Kyle… _

The whisper caressed his neck and traveled up his jawline.

_ Kyle… _

Grazing his ear, it caused him to shudder.

“Stan, pick up the phone,” he mumbled while coming to, reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp.

He still wore the ring.

He wished he could tell people that he got engaged. He wished that every time he looked down, he wasn’t reminded that he was an asshole. All the parents knew what happened because he had to give a full report to the police, and they continually reminded him that it wasn’t his fault. Stan is an adult and he made a decision, they said. Kyle felt like he was swallowing acid. He knew it was the sick part of Stan’s brain that made that decision, not Stan. The real Stan, who lit up a room every time he walked in, that’s who he really was. Everyone loved him.

The Real Stan, he reminded everyone who asked about it, The Real Stan Would Have Fought.

Kyle opened his eyes, reached over the Butcher Babies shirt, and turned on the lamp. The clothes were still there, slightly tousled from his movement. He had only slept for about an hour and his phone had Stan’s contact information lit up on the screen. He locked it and pushed it away.

At some point during his dreaming, he imagined Stan picking up the phone and telling him he was okay, he had just run away to Las Vegas or Ann Arbor or Dallas and hated him. But he was okay. Okay would be better than dead.

The corner of the fitted sheet had become loose during Kyle’s tossing and turning. He went to pull it back over the mattress but a dark spot peeked out. Gingerly, he pulled the sheet back to reveal more. Blood stains. Tons of it. Some darker than others and each one had a different shape. 

Kyle slapped a hand over his mouth,  _ Stan… _

All the times he didn’t know about was freshly displayed for him. It made him nauseous. 

And Stan wasn’t there to be confronted about it. Stan wasn’t there to be held, to be talked to softly, to be kissed on the head.  _ Not unless I just crawl into the coffin with him. _

For Kyle, it was hard to know what was a nightmare and what was real life anymore.

He reached into his cistern of memories and reeled in a particularly fuzzy one. Parts of it were blocked out, not from time, but from trauma.

(you deserve to be here just as much as anyone else stan

probably even more so than other people)

Kyle had found Stan in his bathroom, on the floor, curled around the base of the toilet, unconscious. When Kyle moved him onto his back, he saw the arm. The oval cut with blood seeping into the tile grout. Stan’s face was a shocking pale, as were his lips.

But he was breathing. Not very strongly, but breathing. 

(o god thisisit thisisit he’s gonna bleed out and be gone this time o god o god stan don’t leave me)

Stan’s foot twitched a little. His eyes opened. He saw Kyle’s red face, bloated with tears, and tried to get up with no success.

He told Kyle later on that it was a new blade- clean but sharper than anything he had used in the past.  _ Real quick, _ he told himself,  _ I’ll just do a quick one. _

It was fast, but he had placed too much pressure and sliced off too much skin, revealing the thin, white tissue underneath. He could see inside himself and it made him sick. The area filled with blood; convinced that he would actually bleed out this time, Stan started hyperventilating. He ran it under cold water but the blood kept coming. 

(ok ok o k don’t panic)

He became dizzy and wobbled backward, his breath even more frantic. 

He didn’t even feel it when he blacked out, fell against the side of the tub, and collapsed by the toilet.

(is this how it’s gonna be when i die)

Kyle helped Stan get up. He put an arm around him and put him in his bed.

“It sounds like there’s sand pouring out of my ears,” Stan said quietly.

Not exactly a stranger to passing out and waking up with static or screeching in his ears, all Kyle said was “I’m sorry.” He laid his head on Stan’s chest and listened to his fluttering heartbeat become steady. He wished he could hear his heartbeat now.

He sat back up and looked at Stan, “Just keep breathing. You’ll be okay.”

Stan just looked up at the ceiling. He couldn’t look at the way Kyle was looking at him. Of course, Kyle read into it for what it was.

“That was way too close this time, Stan-”

“-you know you would be better off without me.”

(o god not this again,  you know what stan, sometimes i)

“That’s not true and you know it,” Kyle said sternly. Though he wondered if it was the other way around. If somehow, someway, he was making Stan like this. 

(no no)

“You can do better than me. You deserve better.”

“No offense, but you don’t get to tell me what I deserve. And you certainly don’t get to tell me who to love.”

Silence. 

Kyle continued: “I love you, Stan. But this,” he put a hand on Stan’s arm, being careful not to touch the wound, “This isn’t you.”

“Yes, it is Kyle. I’m depressed all the fucking time.”

“Stan… it’s something that you  _ have. _ It’s not  _ who you are.” _

Silence again.

“When you look at me,” Kyle said, “Do you just see my anxiety?”

“No, I see my boyfriend.”

“Exactly. It’s the same for me. I don’t look at you and see depression. I see  _ you, _ Stan. I see my boyfriend, my best friend. Gifted and smart, funny, kind, and selfless.” He wrapped his hand in his own and kissed it and cupped it in his own, keeping the fingers warm. “We can fight this together. Whatever it takes to survive. I know you can fight this.”

Stan blinked slowly like a tired cat, looking at Kyle with blurred vision. A calming flare enticed him, and he acknowledged it with a grimace. He knew it was the dopamine taking over- the relief of doing the thing you’re addicted to and getting it over with.

“I’m sorry, Kyle.”

Usually, Kyle would ask him why he was apologizing, but he knew that Stan just wanted to be reassured. 

(dont press just understand)

“You don’t have to apologize, Stan. I know you’re hurting. And I’m not going to leave your side.”

Minutes later, Stan fell asleep. The wound had stopped bleeding rather quickly; Kyle wondered if his body had gotten used to it, but quickly dismissed the idea of normalizing it, even on a biology level. 

He looked around the carpet and saw the box cutter tossed at an angle. He picked it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Later on, he would dispose of it, along with anything else sharp that he found in the bedroom. He laid back down next to a sleeping Stan, put an arm around his waist and pulled him closer, kissed his forehead.

“Whatever it takes,” he said to himself.

Gripping on Stan’s clothes, in the present with memory peeking in an out of his mind, he whispered over and over again: 

(my faultmy fault myfault my fault my fucking fault i fucked up i lost him i didnt try hard enough i should have known)

“It’s all my fault…”

…

_ I am a harried cardboard person. _

_ I want too much _

_ I say too much _

_ I feel too much _

_ But I’m flat. _

-found on a sticky note in Stan Marsh’s dresser drawer (March 3, 2015)

…

Kyle climbed into his own window to see a familiar figure bunched up on his bed.

At the sound of his brother tumbling in, Ike immediately sat up, hair askew, and squinted at him.

“Where the fuck were you?” he asked hoarsely.

The image of Stan’s blood-stained mattress was burned into his brain, “Nowhere. I forgot my cigarettes,” he said, looking around on his desk, “What the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

Ike just shrugged, “Are you gonna leave again?”

“Yeah, there’s no way I can go to sleep,” he scooped up the familiar white and teal package, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

Tossing the sheets over, Ike grumbled: “I’m coming with you.”

“No, no, stay here and sleep. It’s too dark out there.”

“So? With your pale ass around I’m sure we’ll see just fine. You’re a goddamn night light.”

He rose and pulled on Terence and Philip slippers that used to belong to Kyle. In what little illumination they had, Kyle could also tell that he had on his Duran Duran shirt, but he wasn’t about to say anything. 

Ike was the only one who still talked Kyle like he was his brother and not a fragile, glass dove like everyone else was at the moment. Good intentions were abounding, but he loved Ike’s realness.

“Hey, Ike?”

“What?”

“Thanks for being cool.”

“Uh, you’re welcome?”

“You know what I mean, dude. Don’t act like you don’t.”

Ike joined his brother at the window, “Well, I… you know/”

“I know. And I wanted you to know that I know.”

Ike rolled his eyes and smiled; they both let out an exhale before climbing out of the window.

When it’s dark in South Park, it’s the most extreme dark with hardly any streetlights and the sky black. Kyle had dark thoughts that involved him tripping as soon as a car came and his head falling prey to the tire. He pushed it out of his mind be never stopped walking at night or in the early morning.

Some nights, the cloudless nights, you could see all the stars. No light pollution, just endless silver dots. Those were the best nights.

In the past, the three of them: Kyle, Stan, and Kenny would climb on the McCormick’s roof and gaze at them, trying their best to find constellations (Kyle always found the most), or make-up new ones (Kenny always found the phallic ones), try to find shapes they could name after themselves or someone else (Stan saw one that looked like a square with dog ears and named it Sparky).

Even with his brother walking beside him, Kyle caught himself look up at them, thinking: (i want to go over the stars).

Getting closer to 6 am, and the two brothers watched as the sun slowly rose, casting their shadows in front of them. The woods around Stark’s Pond had grown rapidly since they were kids. It was the same woods Kenny had died in when he was a kid, but no one except him and the inmate knew; the last person he wanted to know. 

Over the years, the town added more and more to the already uneven terrain, creating gardens and hiking trails, a small town that was trying too hard.

“Something is bothering me about all this,” Ike said suddenly.

“What  _ isn’t  _ there to be bothered by?” Kyle replied, silently wishing that the conversation wasn’t happening. That none of this was happening.

“Why… Why did it take them so long to find Stan?”

“The woods are pretty big now…”

“Yeah but still… five weeks though? Something isn’t adding up.”

Kyle swallowed hard, looked down at his toes for a moment before the smell of pine overtook him.

“Sorry,” Ike quietly said.

“It’s okay,” Kyle felt his shoulders tense up, and he lit a cigarette, the smell of it disturbing the atmosphere of the birches and weeping willows.

“I wish you would quit,” Ike blurted, “You breathe in those things more than actual air now.”

“I’m trying… it’s not easy.” He told Ike this every time. 

One of the paths bore a large, wooden sign before it started, blaring red lettering:

**THINGS TO KNOW BEFORE HIKING THE RIVER TRAIL**

**Rugged terrain- high degree of difficulty**

**4 miles in length- average time: 2 ½ hours**

**No cell phone service- tell someone where you’re going**

**Numerous low areas- you will get muddy**

**Carry your own drinking water**

**Poison ivy grows along the trail**

**BE SAFE - HAVE FUN**

Underneath, a smaller sign:

**PORTIONS OF TRAIL ARE UNDER WATER**

“I’ve walked this path before,” putting his fists in his pockets, he walked ahead of Kyle, “it’s really not that bad.”

“No cell service though…”

“You’re right, we should tell someone where we’re going,” he dramatically turned in a circle, until he faced Kyle again, “Kyle, I’m going on this super creepy hiking trail, and I’ll get muddy. I just wanted to tell you.”

“Okay, smartass,” Kyle followed his little brother, “But we’re not walking the whole thing. Just a little and then we’re coming right back. We can’t be late for the… for the funeral.”

He wished they didn’t have to go.

…

He wished he didn’t have to go.

Kenny McCormick, 18 years old, hating himself, hating how bloodshot his eyes looked in the mirror, splashed his tired face with cold water.

The night before he had crawled into his window, bleeding from the chest. He lied on the carpet and dug out the bullet with trembling fingers, angry that he was going to die again, angry he would have to patch up the skin-tight suit again, angriest that he wasn’t going to be strong enough to pull himself into bed to make it look like he was just sleeping; and Karen would probably see him bleeding out on the floor, again. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said to his reflection. Every hit, every bullet, every stab- they took something out of him. 

Splatters of bright red blood sprayed into the sink as he coughed.

(fuck i think im dying like really dying)

…

The sign wasn’t lying. Portions were underwater and the boys got muddy. Smelling the freshly blooming flowers made Kyle sneeze and his eyes itch. It seemed like every year his allergies became worse and worse, which disappointed him because he loved flowers, especially daisies but never told anyone. A life of stocking up on allergy medication was before him, and the thought of having an entire life ahead of him suddenly seized him.

He still had an  _ entire life _ ahead of him, and he would be alone.

He stopped walking.

“What’s wrong?” Ike called back over his shoulder.

The thought of asking Ike to throw him down the hill to be eaten by stray animals like Jezebel popped up. He bit his lip, “Nothing. Just thinking too much. We should probably head back, Ike. I need to shower.”

Ike stood on the edge of the nearby hill and peered down to the watery abyss. “Damn, it’s really flooded,” he commented.

“Yeah, we need to go,” Kyle glanced at his phone for the time. It was 7:27, “Mom and Dad are probably up now-”

A hissing sound came from his right.

Large and sauntering toward him, a raccoon appeared, its claws digging into the soil.

“Oh no, FUCK no,” Kyle started backing away, “No, fuck that shit, no, no fucking way.”

Suddenly he was 12 years old again, throwing his arms over his face.

Ike turned around, “Just kick it in the head-” The raccoon turned and hissed at Ike, “god damn that thing is huge.” Ike lifted a knee to punt it, but slipped on the mud, and fell backward down the hill. The raccoon ran away at the sound of Ike’s screaming. 

Kyle lunged to the edge to see his 13-year old brother at the bottom, trying to get up, his pants soaked with river water.

“Holy shit, Ike, are you okay?!”

Ike stood up and flashed him a thumbs up, “Yeah, it’s not that steep. I think I just-”

With the velocity of a broken elevator, Ike’s feet suddenly sunk into the earth. Frantically he swung his torso around, jerking his legs, trying to escape, “Kyle!”

“I’m coming!” Kyle ran down, careful not to trip, grabbed onto a low-hanging tree branch and reached for him. Ike was already waist-deep, too far to even touch hands. Kyle inched a little further, almost falling in himself. Still no reach. With one shoulder he shrugged off his jacket and threw it around the branch. Grabbing the end of the sleeves like a handle, he skidded more toward Ike, whose head was now underwater, his tiny freckled hand reaching out. Kyle slapped his palm into Ike’s and forcefully pulled him out; choking and spitting up soil and water. 

“I got you, I got you, you’re okay,” Kyle sat them both back up against the bank, arm around him.

…

“What the  _ fuck _ were you thinking, Kyle? Oh, that’s right, you  _ weren’t.  _ There was a time, Kyle, when you used to use your brain. I guess that’s just not the case with you anymore.”

It was 8 am and Gerald had Kyle cornered in the living room, still in his bathrobe. Ike and Kyle’s clothes were both tattered and earthy- Ike completely soaked. 

Kyle maintained eye contact with his father as he spat insults at his eldest son. Kyle had learned time and time again to never look away from him when he was yelling, and he wasn’t about to sulk away this time either.

“You could have gotten Ike  _ killed _ .” He forcefully shoved an open palm into Kyle’s chest, knocking him back into the wall. Still, Kyle kept solemn silence.

“Dad! Stop! It was an accident!” Ike cried. Sheila ran around the corner with blankets; Ike grabbed at her elbow, “Mom! Tell Dad it was an accident! Please!”

Gerald turned around to look at Ike, “Yes, it was an accident, but it was a  _ preventable _ accident.”

Sheila reached around and tossed a blanket to a hesitant Kyle. He didn’t realize how badly he had been shivering until he wrapped it around himself.

“Gerald, can you tone it down? I’m pretty sure you’re waking up the whole neighborhood,” she drew Ike close to her. Mud was drying in his hair.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Kyle piped up, he couldn’t stop himself. It was happening. He was going to stick up for himself again, “We may as well let everyone know what really goes on in this house.”

Gerald snapped his head back over to him, “You shut the fuck up.”

“Gerald!”

“No, Sheila, I’m tired of this,” he growled, “Another word out of your faggy little mouth and I’m shoving your skull through this wall.”

Kyle started grinding his teeth. He wanted so badly to retort, to really let him have it. The thought of punching his own father in the face seeped into his mind.

Sheila, shaking with rage, spoke quietly, scarily: “Gerald. We agreed… You promised me. You promised me that would stop talking to Kyle like that. You promised me.”

“You promised all of us,” Ike added, “but that’s just like you to go back on your word.”

“Ike, you two shouldn’t have been out there-”

“No, we shouldn’t have, but HELLO, can we talk about the fact that there’s a giant sinkhole that someone else could walk into?! Kyle saved my life-”

“Ike-”

“We need to call the police before someone drowns in that fucking hell pit-”

“Ike, language!” Sheila warned.

“We’ll call the cops, but right now I’m concerned with the fact that  _ this one _ ,” he pointed a finger in Kyle’s face, “almost got my son killed.”

Kyle scoffed, “Am I not your son, too?”

Gerald turned red in the ears, “You used to act like my kid. But I don’t know you anymore. Now, you’re just some weird skin puppet that takes up space in my house. And you almost added to the body count today.”

Ike and Sheila started to make sounds of protest but Gerald shushed them.

“Your irresponsibility could’ve wrecked everything for this family,” he said.

“What about  _ your _ irresponsibility?” Kyle spat, “What about all the times  _ you _ put our family in danger because you’re a selfish prick-”

He was cut off by Gerald’s rough hand across his cheek. Kyle winced, cupped his face, leveling his gaze at his seething father.

“You have no right to talk to me like that, I am your father”

“You used to act like my father.”

Gerald was about to raise a hand again before Sheila pulled on him, “That’s enough! Don’t you dare lay another hand on my child!”

They continued to squabble. Kyle met Ike’s shivering gaze and mouthed  _ it’s okay.  _ Ike pursed his lips and shook his head,  _ no, it’s not okay. _

“-we’ve been nothing but supportive and patient for you these past weeks, Kyle,” Gerald was addressing him again, “And you can’t even give us a ‘thank you’.”

“ _ Mom _ has been supportive and patient, you’ve just stood in the background because you’re a fucking coward.”

Gerald pushed Kyle once again into the wall, hitting the back of his head. Kyle grimaced, threw the blanket off his shoulders, grabbed his father by the shoulders and headbutt him with all the raging strength he had left. Gerald fell back, crumpled to the floor, holding his nose and groaning. Kyle’s head throbbed, making him dizzy, and he didn’t care. He headed for the front door.

“Kyle!” His mother yelled after him. But he couldn’t hear her.

…

Sharon Marsh opened the door, gasping when she saw a battered Kyle on her doorstep, his hand covering his face.

“Mrs. Marsh, can I trouble you for an ice pack?” He asked through clenched teeth.

“Again? You poor thing,” she kept her attention on Kyle, ignoring all the flowers and posters on her lawn, “Yes, of course, sweetheart, come in.”

She took her would have been son-in-law’s arm and brought him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Heart Heart Head" by Meg Myers- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xvh_0CuMMtM
> 
> IG: kyle.vasquez.sp  
> Tumblr: kylevasquezsblog


	11. What Was It Like?

_ What was it like? _

_ What was it like? _

_ What does it feel like to kiss another boy? _

Girls crowded him, wanting more, always wanting to know more.

_ Stop asking, you’re gross. _

_ Of course, you’d think  _ **_we’re_ ** _ gross, Kyle. _

_ You interrogating me is gross. _

_ But we want to know what it was like. _

 

Cold leather cradled the back of his neck. The power was out- wind rattled the window pane, and snow leveled at their front door, flurries chasing after one another. Candles were alight on the coffee table. Stan’s parents were stuck across town, staying in a hotel, the roads too packed with snow to travel.

Under the weight of Stan and three blankets, Kyle’s heart beat faster. Stan kissed his pale chest, the large scar between his nipples, the softness of his belly, before returning to his face; cupping it in his hands.

“Kyle, you’re crying,” he wiped a tear with his thumb.

“I’m just… happy.”

Stan kissed him with cool lips and his pink kitten’s tongue. Kyle’s fingers traced Stan’s spine, feeling every small bump.

_ What was it like? _

He laid on the couch now with the weight of an ice pack on his face, the sounds of Randy yelling at Gerald on the sidewalk.

_ What was it like, assaulting your own father? _

Their voices swelled:  _ My son’s fucking funeral is today! _

_ What was it like watching your brother almost drown? _

Sounds of Sharon in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans in between sobs.

_ What was it like seeing your boyfriend cold and dead on a metal table? _

Sparky whined, sniffed around Kyle’s clothes. Shelly at the window, watching.

_ What was it like having your life fall apart? _

Stan was on him again, in him again, kissing his face, telling him not to cry.

_ What was it like? _

 

_ Please stop asking me. _


	12. Please Don't Leave

“We should kiss.

Not because you passed my way by chance

but because you stopped

and I haven’t been the same since.”

-Courtney Peppernell, PILLOW THOUGHTS

  
  


**January 14, 2017**

 

**4:43 pm- Kyle: Hi Kenny!**

**4:47 pm- Kyle: I know it’s been awhile… how are you?**

**5:30 pm- Kyle: We miss you being around. I miss our friendship. I hope we can hang      out soon.**

He laid the phone on his chest and flipped through the T.V. channels. After a long day of helping his mom with cleaning and shopping, Kyle Broflovski was sprawled on the living room couch in a baseball tee and gray sweatpants. A weather advisory was nestled in the corner of the screen. Ike was in the recliner next to him with the latest issue of  _ Popular Mechanics _ , occasionally licking the tip of his finger as he turned the pages. His nose scrunched up when Kyle flopped onto the couch.

“Your feet smell,” he said, fake gagging.

“Your face smells… Well, it’s about to,” Kyle reached forward and whipped off one of his dirtied socks and chucked it at Ike’s face.

Ike spasmed, shrieking, “Gondor calls for aid!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Gerald had called from somewhere upstairs.

The weather woman gestured with her arms, the image of Colorado swathed in blue. A snowstorm was coming later that night; an anticipated beastly one. Sheila and Kyle spent the day making sure they wouldn’t have to leave the house for anything, stocking up on food and toiletries-- evening making sure they had enough blankets, candles, charged batteries for flashlights in the case the power went out. Ike even set up the extra generator, if that were to happen.

The phone went off with a text, sending a vibration through his rib cage. 

**5:54 pm- Stan: What Disney character do you see me as?**

**5:54 pm- Kyle: Ummmm lemme think…**

**5:55 pm- Stan: And don’t you dare try to be funny and say fucking Shrek**

**5:55 pm- Kyle: Shrek**

**5:55 pm- Kyle: Oops lol**

**5:56 pm- Stan: GOD DAMN IT**

**5:57 pm- Kyle: No no no no you’re Wall-E**

**5:58 pm- Stan: Lol wait really?**

**5:59 pm- Kyle: Yesh**

**6:01 pm- Stan: Does that mean you’re Eve? Owo**

**6:02 pm- Kyle: No lol**

**6:02 pm- Kyle: I’m all that trash that got left behind on Earth**

**6:03 pm- Stan: --__________--**

**6:04 pm- Kyle: Lol**

**6:11 pm- Stan: Btw I’m outside**

**6:12 pm- Kyle: Waitwahtwhy**

**6:13 pm- Stan: If you’re trash, then I gotta pick you up and take you out**

**6:14 pm- Kyle: You stole that joke from the tumblrs**

**6: 14 pm- Stan: I AM tumblr**

“I need my stinky sock back,” Kyle said to Ike, snatching his  _ Lion King _ blanket off the arm of the couch. He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed, the usual cluster of things he always took with him. “Tell Ma I’ll be right back.”

 

…

 

Kyle appeared outside, the chilly winter air biting his face; clad in untied boots, an orange jacket, and the blanket wrapped around his head like E.T. in the bike basket, squinting in the darkness, the only source of visibility being the dim porch light and headlights in the driveway. No matter how many times he blinked, the image before him stayed the same.

Sitting in a tiny, aqua-colored escort with rusted doors and a cracked windshield was Stan, beaming with pride. He grunted, struggling to roll down the window as Kyle got closer, inaudibly reminding himself to fix the stickiness later. Kyle leaned down, staring daggers at his boyfriend of four years:

“The fuck is this?”

“My car.”

“The fuck it is.”

Stan frowned, “You don’t like it?”

“Does the heat even work?”

“Yeah, dude,” Stan turned a knob, and the drone of hot air hummed.

“What about the air conditioning?”

“Um,” Stan scratched at his earlobe, not looking at Kyle, “what about it?”

“Does the fucking A/C work, Stan?”

“Well, no. I have to fix it. But it’ll be awhile before I even need it. I can just drive with the windows down if I have to.”

“It gets hotter every summer…”

“Maybe we just need to train our bodies to acclimate, then.”

Kyle rolled his eyes and straightened up, “You should’ve told me you were going to buy a whole ass car-”

“-as opposed to a half ass car?”

Kyle sighed heavily, “I could’ve come with you.”

Shoulders tensed, chin squarely up, squinting through Kyle’s sour expression, Stan retorted, “Maybe I just wanted to do something by myself for once.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Stan looked forward, hands on the steering wheel. Admittedly, he felt wrong, brandishing acidity at the person he loved the most. But he had been thinking it for awhile.  “It’s cold. Get in.”

For a moment, Kyle had the urge to turned around, rush back into the house, lock the door, leave Stan out in the driveway, ignore all of his texts and calls, make him feel a few days of pain in return for being a dick. A braid of hurt and indignation pulled in his chest.

But he pushed the animosity down and walked to the passenger side, opening and closing the door behind him gently, afraid it would break off.

(its fine its fine he didnt mean it)

Stan cleared his throat, “Uh, so the guy I bought this from left some cassette tapes-”

“-how much?”

“We’ve got some Mariah Carey, Selena, Whitney Houston, Gloria Estefan-”

“-how much was the car, Stan?”

“500. Not bad for a fixer-upper,” he replied, not looking up at Kyle, transfixed in the tapes, “Ooh, No Doubt.”

“$500?! Stan, that’s insane! I wouldn’t have even paid 100 for this shit!”

“I’m thinking some good old Alanis Morissette.”

Kyle gave up and slouched into the seat, tightening the blanket around himself. Stan popped in the cassette and backed out of the driveway. Fuzzily, “All I Really Want” poured from the speakers.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Stan commanded when the alert dinged from his dashboard. “Having a blanket on isn’t going to protect you from getting launched through the fucking windshield.” 

Kyle let out a little groan and obliged. “Well, you’d probably be better off if I did.”

“Don’t. Don’t start with that again. You know I wouldn’t be ‘better off’.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the wind blowing through naked tree branches, creating wavering shadows under street lights. Kyle was about to speak up, find some way to attack him, but before he could open his mouth, he felt Stan take his hand, interlacing their fingers and resting them on center console. 

“This is nice,” Stan gave Kyle’s hand a soft squeeze, “I get to take  _ you _ out instead of you having to lug me everywhere.”

Instead of spitting out something like ‘you asshole’ or another comment about the car, Kyle bit his lip. Thoughtfully, he stared at the side of Stan’s face, a constant against the passing winter scenery outside of the glass. He squeezed back.

“I don’t mind though,” his voice took on a newer, gentle tone, “But where are you even taking me? From the looks of it, you’re about to leave me in a ditch somewhere.”

“I mean, I can if you really want me to.”

Kyle laughed, “Murder me, daddy.”

“Jesus Christ. Okay, Fifty Shades of Broflovski,  I think  _ you’re _ the one spending too much time on ‘the tumblrs’.”

“Nope, just playing  _ Animal Crossing. _ ”

“Oh, God.”

“ _ I have to. _ If I don’t check in, Kyleville gets overgrown with weeds.”

“...Kyleville?”

“That’s what I call my village, don’t hate.”

The track faded to “Hand in My Pocket.” Snowflakes began flurrying past them.

“We really can’t be out that long. It’s too dangerous,” Kyle said, digging into his pockets for a lighter.

“I know. You’re not smoking in here, by the way. I don’t care if you roll the window down.”

Kyle froze. The jurisdiction from Stan was sharp, almost sounding parental.

“Stan, I hate to ask but… are you taking your meds?”

Stan had started taking medication with the help of a discreet clinic, and Kyle was usually the one to pick it up for him. He still had bad days, the nurse practitioner said it would be six months before real improvement, but overall, he glowed a little more, especially when he remembered to take the take the little white pill.

Stan’s fingers loosened. His arm drooped, his face downcast. “Yeah, I am.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, it’s just that you forget sometimes and I-”

“Yeah, I know,” Stan roughly shook off Kyle’s hand and turned up the music. The static made Kyle wince but he didn’t want to complain, not now.

(and i worry about you a lot)

They pulled into a CVS parking lot just as the wind started blowing stronger. 

“Why?” Kyle asked, gesturing with his hand, his face illuminated by the blaring red letters of the drug store.

“I just need to get a few things. You can stay here.”

Stan turned to leave. Kyle grabbed his elbow, “Wait.”

“What?”

“Can we just sit here a second?”

“Sure, I guess,” he turned down Alanis.

Kyle continued holding on to his arm, “Why did you kiss me at my Bar Mitzvah?”

“Because I wanted to?”

“Why’d you want to?”

Stan softened, the whites of his eyes florid, “Because I love you.”

“Do you still?”

“Kyle… what kind of question is that? Of course I still love you. I’ve never stopped.”

“Then why are you acting like this? You’re… you’re treating me like shit.”

Stan said nothing, his lips pursed. He pulled on the door handle and leaned out, “I think you’re overreacting,” leaving Kyle in the dark.

He watched as Stan disappeared behind the sliding glass door, into the fluorescent light. How many times has he heard that:  _ You and your mother overreact to everything-- stop being so fucking emo.  _ With a dejected sigh, he stepped out as well and lit up. Shadowy figures walked by him, sometimes glaring him and his smoking mouth. Now and then he glanced up, hoping to see Stan on his way back, so they could just go home and sleep this off, but he was taking a while. Their town’s CVS usually only had one cashier working anyway, of course it would take some time.

More snowflakes were falling, melting into his hair and freezing his scalp. He tapped ashes out into the air, leaning against the escort.

The past few months had been strenuous for both of them. They were trying so hard to help Stan stay alive, but sometimes, he wouldn’t let Kyle help. He would push him away, yell at him for being too invasive, curse him. 

(i wish he would just put down the scissors and let me in)

He looked up at the dark sky, blotted with gray clouds, a few stars, Venus. Harsher gusts of snow cut at his face; he opened his mouth and let the flakes dissolve on his tongue.

(patience forgiveness patience forgiveness patience forgiveness)

the more i think them the less they mean

love is patient love is kind

fuck im the worst)

 

…

 

**June 10, 2017**

 

Kyle is throwing up in the shower. The dirt and worms come out. Maggots crawl out of his nose. They wiggle around his curled toes, gripping the tub for balance. He’s bent over, watching earth tumble from his mouth. Blood blood blood he sees. On his pruney fingers. Thin, leaking out like a bloodied steak. He pushes the worms through the drain, separating them, jamming their bodies through black circles, trying to make them fit. His chest is a map of jagged purple lines, pulsing lightning to match his heart.

What’s left of it.

…

Bodies swaying with the road, saying nothing, feeling everything. Clouds of dirt billowed up from behind the tires, driving past fields of fields, growing whatever; Kyle wasn’t sure anymore. His head still throbbed. He could swear he was still licking dirt from his teeth.

Sparky wiggled in his lap, spreading more dog hair- he had borrowed Randy’s suit; a little too loose and a little too short, it was used to seeing dog hair. Nothing he was wearing was his own. After the shower, he had to take Stan’s underwear, his socks, his shoes, his deodorant-- an orange scent. Kyle gave the pup a scratch behind the ears. He wished, for a moment, that he could be an animal, unaware of complex emotional pain, not understanding anything. But he looked into Sparky’s dopey brown eyes and remembered that animals, maybe even more so that humans, understood death and understood pain without making it complex; just feeling. 

Then he wished he was a plant, any plant, rooted and unknowing. But grass knows when it's cut, dandelions get their heads popped off, roses have their thorns sliced, but cacti, he thought, cacti live in the desert alone. Anything that does happen, happens around them and not to them.

He ran his fingers over the heart-shaped stain on the seat between him and Shelley. She hadn’t talked much since coming back to the state. 

_ I’m a cactus, _ he mused, as they pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. Kenny’s truck was already there. As soon as the blonde stepped out, also in a suit too big for him, Sparky sat up and wagged his tail.

All of them filed out of the truck like zombies. Sparky sniffed at Kenny’s ankles, his pink leash swaying. Randy and Sharon came around the front of the vehicle, Kenny gestured to them with a sky-blue envelope: A sympathy card.

“Um, this is for you guys. My folks are coming later,” he said. Sharon quietly took it from his shaking hands. 

“Thanks, buddy,” Randy clapped a hand on Kenny’s shoulder, “Who did your hair?”

“Oh,” he ran a hand over his braids, “Karen, of course.”

“You look like Legolas,” Shelley peered around the trunk.

“Remember when you kids would play  _ Lord of the Rings _ all the time,” Sharon spoke, her voice trembling a touch, “It seems just like yesterday…”  She looked at Kyle, “It seems just like yesterday you were knocking on the front door with a spatula and a scarf tied around your hat, looking for Stanley.”

“I remember,” Kyle said, looking down at his shoes, “I remember everything.”

Kenny glanced at him.

(not  _ everything _ kyle) 

They all shifted a little. Sharon pulled Kyle into a hug, kissed him on the temple, before disappearing with Randy and Shelley.

As they walked away, Kenny took a small step toward Kyle, “Hey-”

“-I wish I was a cactus.”

Kenny paused, his mouth slightly open, studying the boy that was looking off to the side, numb.

“Same.”

“Are you saying ‘same’, just to say it?” asked Kyle, still not looking at his friend.

“No, I mean, I get it. To just stand still. No one can touch you. I get it.”

Kyle finally looked at him with tired, gray-green eyes.

“And,” Kenny added, “as a cactus, you get to get to be some design on a Forever 21 shirt.”

Taken off guard, Kyle suddenly laughed. The sound was foreign to him at this point, “Dude, what?”

“I had to take Karen and her friends to the mall the other day and I kinda followed them around, I mean, I did my own thing, but I watched them from a distance because whenever there’s a group of pre-teen girls, there’s bound to be a group of pre-teen boys, and boys are…” Kenny raised his hands and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I know. We were boys once,” Kyle half-smiled, then added quietly: “You’re gonna be a good dad someday.”

Kenny, somewhat taken aback, shook his head, “I have to actually find someone that wants to have a kid with me, then we’ll see.”

“Yeah, that first step is kinda important.”

Sparky paced around them, sniffing the air.

“I don’t wanna intrude,” Kenny started slowly, “But I can’t help but noticed that bruise.” He pointed at Kyle’s hairline, where the skin was violet.

“Ugh,” Kyle pulled at his curls, trying to bring them down over his forehead, “I got into a fight with my dad this morning.”

“Are you serious? Dude, that’s fucked up.”

Kyle remembered when he was so little, he would get excited when his father’s lawyer commercials would fill the T.V. screen, his figure replacing the “I” in the middle of two giant white letters: “W” and “N.”

“Well, he’s an asshole,” Kyle stated flatly. Silence rested between them for a minute before Kyle turned to walk inside. Sparky leaned into Kyle’s legs and whined, pushing his full weight, blocking him.

“I think he knows,” Kenny picked the dog up and cradled him, “It’s okay, boy.”

They walked toward the red-brick building, the sound of birds and grasshoppers echoing through the empty lot.

Kenny cleared his throat, “You know, if somehow you ever get stranded in a desert, you can stab a cactus. Water will come out.”

“...I know.”

 

…

 

Kyle hadn’t been to a funeral in several years, not since Chef, and before that, his grandmother, but he remembered how these things went: people come in, act nice to you, say nice things, say nice things about the person in the box, leave, and move on.

The woman who greeted them in the vestibule stood completely straight, her hands behind her back, eyes aglow under dark eyebrows. As she spoke, and she spoke quickly, Kenny noticed her tongue was split in two like a snake’s. She led them to Stan’s room. Randy whispered something about never seeing her before, and they’ve been dealing with a different funeral director for the whole week.

They approached the casket with hesitant, light footsteps. Kyle and Kenny stayed behind while Randy, Sharon, and Shelley got closer. Kyle watched as their shoulders slumped, taking it all in. 

“He looks good,” Randy finally declared, he turned around and ushered the boys forward, “Come look, come see.”

They parted, letting the boys come forward.

_ Good _ wasn’t the adjective Kyle would have used. It didn’t look like Stan anymore. He was doll-like, waxy, with blushing cheeks and slicked back hair, not smiling. The night before, Kyle had looked up the embalming process. He knew Stan was dried out now, filled with chemicals, his jaw wired shut. Someone had to style his hair, put that makeup on him so he wouldn’t look so pale. Fixed him up with that damn too skinny tie. The clothes that Stan had died in-- the decrepit Adidas, the khaki shorts, the holey tee shirt, were all tied up in a bag and stored in an evidence locker. 

Kenny leaned into Kyle. “You know it’s not actually him. It’s just his body.” He wondered if saying it actually mattered. Or he just needed to remind himself. 

Kyle leaned down and stroked Stan’s cheek, like he was tucking him into bed.

A few guests showed up; the family went to them, leaving Kenny, Kyle, a still-leashed Sparky. And Stan.

“Babe…” he said softly. He wanted to climb in, run his hands through his hair again, rest his head on his chest, close the lid over them, and stay that way forever. Cry for him forever. “I love you.” Stan didn’t say it back.

Kenny watched Kyle crouch over like a wounded animal, stare at the face of his once best friend. He swallowed, looked down at the floor, and his eyes blurred.

He felt Kyle hug him.

“It’s okay, Kenny. It’s okay.”

“No, I know, I just…” He wiped away tears with the palm of his hand.

“It’s okay,” Kyle gave Kenny’s shoulders a squeeze. He looked down at Stan, with his blank face and painted lips- remembering how his face looked when he said he didn’t know if he could marry him. Maybe he was waxy then too. Maybe they both were. “The last thing I said to him was ‘don’t leave me like this’... I never thought it would be a precursor to-”

“-don’t.” Kenny said before Kyle could completely unravel and vomit the entire past, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just say what you need to say now. I can go, if you want.”

“No, you can stay. I need you to stay, please.”

Kenny just nodded. People came in, dressed in suits and floral dresses and sat in chairs, lined the walls, signed the guest book, pushing the ink too deep into the pages. Their hushed whispers grated Kenny’s brain.

“Why couldn’t you just stay and talk to me, Stan? Why did you ignore all of my calls and texts? God,  _ why? _ ” His voice broke on the last ‘why,’ “It was supposed to be you and me forever, not you leave me behind before I get a chance to… just…  _ why _ .”

“You know he didn’t  _ want _ to leave you,” Kenny said softly.

“But he did.”

“Kyle… I-”

“Hey, fellas!” a familiar voice resounded by them. Butters appeared, Father Maxi behind him, clutching a Bible. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You’re fine” Kyle said. He shook his hand, “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” he put a hand on Kyle’s arm, “How ya doin’?”

Kyle shrugged, “As good as I can be, I guess… You wanna see him?”

“I do.”

They moved aside. Butters held Stan’s hand, took a deep breath, “Hey buddy. I know you fought hard. You had to fight hard every day. But we wish you were still here.”

Kyle handed Kenny the leash for Sparky, “I need to sit down. I just can’t. I can’t do this...” He turned away.

“Son?” Father Maxi reached out, touched his shoulder blade.

Kyle paused, murmured into his shoulder, “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for your loss. If you ever need any counseling, don’t hesitate to call me. It doesn’t have to be faith-based. We can always just talk man-to-man.” There were wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, hair completely grayed now. Crooked glasses. But the same kindness was still there.

“Thank you, Father,” Kyle said, as sincerely as he could. He couldn’t picture him ever sitting down, spilling his guts to this man, but he appreciated the offer. He left, sat down in one of the rows of chairs.

Maxi turned to Kenny, “You keep an eye on him. I’m worried.”

“Worried about what?”

Maxi leaned in close, a sudden gleam of seriousness in his eyes, “Situations like this have a contagion factor. I’m afraid that Kyle might… copy… him.”

“Ky…” he glanced at his friend, sitting with his face in his hands. For a second, he saw an image he didn’t want to see: Kyle in the casket. His heart tightened.  “He would never.”

“Just look out for him.”

“I plan to.”

Father Maxi nodded, took off to talk to the Marsh family. Butters was still watching Stan. “Did Sparky see him yet?”

“Well, no,” replied Kenny, looking down at the dog, who was standing at attention.

“You should let him see Stan.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He picked Sparky up and leaned him toward Stan’s face. He tenderly sniffed the air at first. Kenny expected him to start whining once the realization kicked in. Instead, the fur on his back stiffened like a mohawk. He growled, saliva dripping between his teeth. The growl became louder, and people looked up. Butters back away.

“Um, um…”

Sparky barked and trembled, wrestling with Kenny’s arms. He nearly dropped the dog, and as soon as his paws hit the carpet, he stopped.

(something the fuck is wrong)

He looked around for the funeral director, that snake woman, but she was gone.

Kyle came running up, “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know, dude. I don’t know.”

 

…

 

The thing that angered Kyle the most was everyone’s complacency with the circumstances, everything from their vague appeasement at the impressionistic art on the walls, to the flowers that people weren’t supposed to send, to the picture board- which Kyle admitted turned out beautiful, however, no one dared to spend more than a few seconds around Stan. It’s uncomfortable to see the waxy body of a friend in a box. The unfair expectation to make everyone else feel comfortable had been given to him, but he just couldn’t do it. Randy and Sharon were better at it. They just extended their parental instincts to everyone there.

The politeness killed Kyle, but he understood that that’s just how it is. How funerals always go. Hell, he’s  _ been  _ that person before. He just went with it. Became a cactus.

Kenny sensed all of this, but he couldn’t blame Kyle for feeling that way didn’t try to put it in perspective for him like how he would with Karen. It was an uncomfortable, polite mess, but it would be over with soon. Kenny also noticed that Gerald hadn’t shown up, just Sheila and Ike. That seemed to be okay with Kyle. He embraced his brother like he was never going to see him again.

The only person who seemed to be openly disturbed by it was Wendy Testaburger, who had been standing at the back of the room by herself, tightly clutching her purse strap for the last five minutes.

...

This was a different Wendy than the one picked up from the airport. The Wendy from two days ago had a much more deeply intelligent and cultured vibe about her that was intimidating. Eyebrows arched, watching Kyle’s every move, every facial twitch, as he drove. She seemed to want to counsel him, speaking softly and slowly to him as they drove on the freeway.

“Are you sure that this is okay? You’re comfortable with me being here?” she had asked.

“Of course. You were… important to Stan. You  _ should  _ be here.”

She stared at him for a long time. He tried not to let it bother him but soon he became self-conscious and tried to focus on the traffic.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally looking ahead at the road.

“Huh?”

“If I’ve ever said or done anything to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t, Wendy,” he noticed how pale, purple, and blotchy his hand looked on the black steering wheel. A vein he never saw before was pulsating in his knuckles. “To be honest, the only slightly distressing thing you said to me was that my Human Kite costume wasn’t as good as the elf one.”

Wendy smiled and shook her head, “I just didn’t like it because it covered most of your face.”

“That was the goal,” Kyle laughed, “And less wind resistance. But really, you’ve never bothered me. I kind of just saw you as friendly competition.”

“For Stan?”

“O-Oh, no. For grades.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, no, I didn’t realize I liked Stan until after you left, so… yeah,” Kyle shrugged as if to say  _ do with that what you will. _

“So… if you don’t mind my asking, when did it actually happen?”

Kyle sighed, relaxing a little, “he kissed me at my Bar Mitzvah.”

“That’s really cute,” she said.

“And then he hid in the bathroom the rest of the night. I had to keep sneaking challah and hummus for him under the stall door. It was romantic and kind of gross at the same time.”

She glanced at the gold band on his finger, “You look so different from when we were kids.”

“So do you.”

“I mean, you have facial hair and everything. Anytime that I ever thought of you or Stan, or anyone else that I knew here, you’re 10. As I got older, I still thought of you as 10.”

Kyle threw on a blinker, merged into the left lane to exit. He caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror as he said: “And now Stan’s going to be 18 forever.”

…

Now she was standing, away from everyone, rigid and pale. Kyle approached her, trying his best to act calm, not be awkward.

“Hi, Wendy.”

“Hey, Kyle,” she mechanically lifted herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Do you want me to hang up your cardigan or anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Is there something I can do for you?”

“No. Just you being here is enough.”

With think pink lips, she smiled sadly. Kyle reached out and took her hand, “We found a picture of you and Stan. It’s on the board.”

He led her up the large, white square, pasted with several photos, most of Stan and his family, and of Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, but there was one of just Stan and Wendy, holding hands during a field trip to Denver. 

“This turned out really nice,” she said.

“Yeah… Kenny did it,” said Kyle. Wendy looked over her shoulder and nodded at Kenny who waved back. Butters waved too, sitting next to him.

She silently put a hand on the board, gazing at the Polaroid of herself and Stan.

“Okay,” she said, more to herself than to Kyle, “Okay, okay, okay…”

“Wendy?”

“I’m going to look at him now,” again to herself. She slowly turned to the casket.

“I’m here, Wendy,” Kyle followed her as she loomed over Stan, carefully studying his face.

The sound, unmistakable, Kyle had heard it before, the panic, the air became jagged. She was hyperventilating, lungs crashing. Then it came: the scream.

 

…

 

Kyle sat with Wendy for a long time out in the lobby, her sobbing into his shoulder. He had an arm around her, staring down at the marble floor, then up at the fish tank that hummed in the wall. Soft jazz filtered through the speakers. Elevator music for the dead. 

“I’m so sorry,” Wendy sniffled. She buried her face into his neck. Feeling her tears soak his shirt made him flinch, but he didn’t want to be rude and push her away. 

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I lost control.”

“You’re only human, Wendy.”

Microphone feedback pierced the air. Soft clicking of high heels echoed from the floor. They looked up to see Bebe wringing her hands, staring. “Are you okay, Wendy?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingertips.

“I brought some extra mascara with me, if you want… Not that you need to fix it. I’m just saying, if you wanted to.”

“Okay,” she said quietly, slowly rising off the bench and out of Kyle’s arms.

Bebe turned to Kyle, “I can take care of her. You should go back. I think Father Maxi is about to start.”

…

Kenny is screaming in the bathroom. He covers his face to muffle it but he can feel the vibrations in his hands, the sound hit him back. He kicks at a urinal.

It’s all too much.

It’s all too much.

It’s all too much.

…

“God our Father,

Your power brings us to birth,

Your providence guides our lives,

and by Your command we return to dust.”

 

Kenny slid into the empty seat next to Kyle, who was staring longingly at Stan. 

 

“Lord, those who die still live in Your presence,

their lives change but do not end.

I pray in hope for the family, and their friends,

and for all the dead known to You alone.

 

In company with Christ,

Who died and now lives,

may they rejoice in Your Kingdom,

where all our tears are wiped away,

and we are united again as one family.

 

Amen.”

 

The room murmured a soft amen in return.

After, Sharon came up to speak:

“...No one ever anticipates having to bury their own child. It should have been the other way around. My Stanley was a good boy. He didn’t deserve to have his life taken from him like this.”

Kyle could barely stand to hear her. 

“But I am so thrilled to see so many of you here, all of his friends, our family…”

Then, a few other kids from school, including Clyde: “One time Stan threw those TNT popper things at me when I was on the toilet at school.”

Token: “I remember when Stan brought in a skunk from recess because he thought its leg was broken.”

Kyle went up. It was expected of him, but once again, he had nothing prepared. He couldn’t bring himself to sit at the kitchen table or his desk and actually write about his dead boyfriend in a school notebook and an old pencil. He felt like he was in a movie, watching from another spot in the room as this lanky, tall, pale, shattered man found his way up to the front of the room, looked at his boyfriend’s body once more. Kyle looked out and saw his mother and Ike watching him. Sheila had her hand over her heart.

“H-Hi,” he moved into the microphone, “I’ve known Stan, quite literally, my whole life. Every great childhood memory that I have- Stan is there. He was such a presence, just in the way that he could bring joy into any atmosphere, light up every room, just by being himself. I loved him so much. He was so…” he paused. The people in the room started blurring, a lump formed in his throat, but he pushed, “He was so special to me. And this is hard, because when you find someone like that… it’s…”

(youre overreacting)

“I am so sorry.” Kyle backed away. He couldn’t finish. His hand went over his mouth, and the tears came. Kenny rushed up. He put an arm around Kyle, pulling him in tight.

“All of my good memories have Stan in them, too,” he said, leaning into the mic. “Um, I wasn’t planning on saying anything today, but…” he looked at Kyle, who had his head down, eyebrows furrowed, eyes wet. He gave his arm a gentle squeeze, “That’s just how it is sometimes. We always end up doing things we never thought we’d be doing.”

Kyle glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were red and raw.

Kenny continued: “Um, actually, there was this one time that Stan joked that he wanted us to sing “Closing Time” by Semisonic at his funeral-- do you remember that?”

Kyle nodded apprehensively, “yeah.”

“I’m not going to punish everyone by actually singing it,” there was some polite laughter, “but there is a lyric that goes  _ every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end, _ and Father-” he looked at Maxi. “In your prayer, towards the end, you said ‘their lives change but do not end.’ From listening to everyone speak today, we know that each of us has a memory of Stan, several memories. Little pieces of him that we all hold. And I really think that because of that, he’s still here in a way.” 

He looked at Kyle again. “Stan never left you, Kyle. And he never will,” he put a hand over Kyle’s heart, “he’s still right here.”

Kyle, sniffling, did the same, and they stared at each other for a moment before Kyle threw his arms around Kenny’s shoulders.

Then Wendy rose, hand-in-hand with Bebe, walked up, and did the same, both of them cradling the boys. Then Butters. Then Heidi. Then Token. Then Clyde. Then Tweek. Then Craig. Then Jimmy. Then Timmy. Then Red. A huddle 17 and 18-year-olds, grief-stricken, holding each other still, like cacti in a hot, hot desert.

 

…

The sound of engines faded out as everyone drove out into the roads, with their botched mufflers, muddy tires, and bumper stickers that said things like “My Child is An Honor Student.” Sheila had a few of those on her car too. 

Burning breached his lungs, leaning on Kenny’s truck, watching the smoke blow out of his nostrils and into the empty sky; the lot feeling too open but constricting at the same time. It was early afternoon and hot as hell. Kyle thought about Stan’s car, sitting empty in the driveway with a broken A/C. In a couple days he would have to accompany Stan’s family for the burial, but days were worlds away, and he pushed it out of his mind.

Kenny was digging through his truck, tossing various receipts and bottles into the back, until he found the shrink-wrapped bag with a small brown jacket and red collar.

“You don’t have to clean anything out. It’s fine,” Kyle tapped out ashes, watching them sprinkle onto the concrete.

“No, it’s okay,” he tucked the coat under his arm carefully so Kyle wouldn’t see, “I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay- well, wait.”

“What?”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Kyle turned to him slightly, “Thank you for finding words for me when I couldn’t. Stan would’ve loved what you said.”

Kenny smiled, “Anytime, Broflovski.”

  
  


…

River Funeral Home was darker now, only sunlight  glowed through the tall windows of the lobby. The air conditioner hummed. Kenny wanted to go back. Go back to when they were boys and summer meant fireworks, barbeques, swimming, the smell of sunscreen, and on some days- boredom. He would give anything to be bored again. 

Entering the room again, void of people walking around, chattering, weeping, carved a new sense of loss from him. At the front, Stan’s casket was still open, like he was expecting Kenny to come back, opening the front door of his new home in the underworld:  _ Come in dude! We’re just in here playing cards with Elvis and Teddy Roosevelt and Emily Dickinson- I’m so happy you could stop by. Could you tell Kyle to stop being sad? He’s probably better off without me anyway. _

With a heavy sigh, he walked up. Despite the waxy shell, Stan looked peaceful, like he had lived 1,000 lives and was ready to rest. Kenny knew the feeling. At the same, he could see why Sparky hadn’t recognized him. He placed a hand on the edge, feeling the smooth, polished oak.

“Hey, dude.”

(anytime broflovski)

“I know the last time we talked was very brief. I know that it’s my fault we all grew apart. I know how hard you tried to get the band back together… God, I wish you knew that I knew… I never wanted this to happen, never wanted anything bad to happen to you. I just… cut you guys off because I was scared you’d find out about…” He thought of Kyle standing outside, leaning against the truck. He remembered the times he wished it was Kyle in his backseat instead of whoever else ended up back there, “I was just trying to guard my heart, I guess.”

Kenny tore open the plastic and pulled out the jacket.

“You put this on me when I fell out of the tree… You just wanted me to have a coat.”

He gently laid it over Stan’s chest like he had done for Kenny so many years before. There were some rips, bits of thinned fabric from several cycles in the dryer, evenings of splashing in puddles and falling in warm mud.

“I’m sure I’ll see you on the other side. Sometime soon.”

With his hands in his pockets, he stayed for a little while, just staring. 

…

“Are you sure you should be drinking with your head like that?” Kenny asked, pulling a box of PBR from a small fridge in the garage, then closed the door with his foot.

Kyle stood holding a tray of kneaded balls of hamburger, his tie loosened, suit jacket off, “It’s not like I have a concussion… again. My head is so hard now.”

“You had a hard head even before then,” Kenny grinned. “You’re pretty fucking resilient.” 

They started walking back outside into the dry, June heat.

“Regardless though, I don’t like beer.”

“Oh, what  _ do  _ you like?”

“Anything hard.”

“Hard like your head?”

“You got it.”

Nearby, the chatter of people, all friends from school, it was like Kenny never dropped out, was around the corner. Out of the confines of the funeral home, people seemed able to fluidly talk about Stan, light-hearted and lovingly. Even Kyle was able to crack a joke or two, though he admitted quietly to Kenny that he was feeling a “little loopy” from the stress and lack of sleep.

“I wish Stan could see how many people came,” Kyle said, watching Kenny light the grill, “I wish he could know how many people will miss him.”

Pressing the spatula into the beef, Kenny listened for the satisfying  _ hiss _ . “I have a bottle of vodka with your name on it.”

…

dopamine

serotonin

oxytocin

The teacher has just asked them to describe love.  _ Take a few minutes to write and then share with the class. _ More Shakespeare,  _ The Tempest. _ The teacher was unconventional, experimental, assigning them a sonnet a week (mostly the gay ones, Kyle noticed) and starting with the later plays and working backward, sometimes sideways. Everyone around him continued writing and he sat with his three words, hands folded in his lap.

_ Is that really all you wrote, Kyle? _

“I can’t think of what else to say.”

_ I’ve read your essays before. I  _ _ know _ _ you have more to say. _

…

**To take the bones of your mind and lay them out on an Armenian rug, clean them with a toothpick so that there’s not a speck of dirt left.**

**What a waste.**

**I want your dirt.**

-somewhere in one of Stan’s notebooks, or in a folder. It doesn’t matter. It’s in Kyle’s room now.

…

Kenny barged into his bedroom, a sloppy Kyle draped over his shoulders, breathing heavily- the combination of alcohol, grief, and heat had overcome him.

Sprawled out on navy blue bed sheets like a sea star, Kyle groaned; pulled the tie over his head and unbuttoned his shirt so that his scar peeked out. Kyle had never laid on just a mattress on the floor before, but he liked it. He liked being closer to the ground. A small trash can was pulled up next to him.

“Just in case,” Kenny grinned. “You can sleep it off in here if you want. I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

Kyle’s eyes widened, “No, please don’t leave me.”

His Cheshire cat smile faded into concern, “I’d just be right in the other room, Kyle. You won’t be alone. If I stayed here, where would I even sleep?”

“With me.”

“It’s… kind of a small bed.”

“So?”

“ _ You _ take up most of the bed.”

“I’ll move.”

Kyle crept closer to the trash can, trying to shrink himself to the side.

“I guess that works,” Kenny shrugged. He searched his closet for a new shirt, his current one soaked in grease, sweat, death, some alcohol, not nearly as much as he wanted, but enough. Pulling the shirt over his head, he got a whiff of it all.

“Whoa,” he heard Kyle say quietly behind him. He didn’t realize he was being watched.

“What?”

“Your tattoo is so cool.”

On Kenny’s right shoulder blade were yellow, pink, and red snapdragons, bunched together like how they would be in someone’s garden. He forgot that he never told Kyle, never told anyone really, except for Karen. It was mostly for her anyway. Snapdragons were her favorite flowers after Kenny showed her some. He demonstrated how, when laterally squeezing them, they looked like dragons opening their mouths.

“Thanks,” Kenny reached for a shirt on the closet floor, sniffed it to make sure it was decently clean, “I love snapdragons.”

A pause, and Kyle said: “I love daisies.”

Kenny smiled to himself before turning to face Kyle.

(good to know)

“So, what, you wanna get a tattoo now, Broflovski?”

Slyly, proudly, Kyle looked at him with half-lidded eyes.

“I have one already.”

“You do? Where? I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s an orca.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. Where though?”

Kyle started undoing his belt buckle.

“What the fuck, dude, leave your pants on!” Kenny covered his eyes, his cheeks flushed.

“It’s okay, Ken, it’s on my leg. Well, my thigh.”

Kenny peeked out to see that Kyle wasn’t lying. His pant leg was pulled down some, boxers pulled up just slightly. The small orca was definitely there.

“Damn,” he said, sliding next to Kyle on the mattress. “Who did that for you? It looks like stick and poke.”

Kyle pulled his pants back up, “I did.”

“Seriously? You just fucking sat there and stabbed yourself?”

“Yup.”

“What  _ are you _ ?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

They laid side-by-side, staring up at the off-white, bumpy ceiling before Kenny reached over and turned off the lamp, leaving them in the complete dark.

“I’m getting another one soon,” Kenny rested his hands on his stomach, “You can come with me, if you want.”

“What are you getting?”

“I actually don’t know yet.”

(probably daisies)

…

He dreamed again that he was in the dark place, the sounds of wet grass soaked under his socks.

(no shoes why)

He had to know he was dreaming but it all felt too real. He could feel the wetness of the socks, feel the bark of the trees he touched on his fingertips. Bugs crawling through his hair, the chirping of crickets and hoo’s of owls.

Wanting a glass jar just to fill it with the scent of the forest, it smelled so pure

(look me in the eyes and say it say it tell me

im not suicidal)

unencumbered by the stench of death and anxiety. It just was.

The sound of twigs snapping in the distance reminded him how cruel the darkness was- and all the things that happened within it, now a part of it, his face like a mask on a dummy, eyeless and mouthless. So thinly stretched.

The snapping came closer and the outline of someone familiar took form. 

Slender shoulders he loved to kiss, the legs, torso, long arms, neck, the head with shaggy black hair. He reached out and was suddenly there, holding his face in his hands and running his fingers through that hair, but he couldn’t make out the details of his face.

(stan)

They kissed with cold, stiff lips.

(stan come home please im begging you please please)

(                    )

                              (stan???)

(                             )

                               (answer me!!!!!)

His hands moved down to shake his shoulders and then he felt the tug and heard the distinguished sound that only the tightening of a rope could make. Yanked away from him and into the branches up above his head, Kyle only caught a glimpse of the bottom of Stan’s foot, twitching.

(NO!!!!)

Kyle’s throat was breaking, his screams loud enough to wake up Kenny, wake up the whole neighborhood. Rolling over, all he could see was Kyle’s mouth popped open, eyes wide, arms frozen at his side, completely paralyzed. Kenny tried to shake him awake- and immediately retracted. The skin was blazing hot.

Kyle wasn’t fully awake. Still in the forest, screaming for Stan, until a force took him as well, strung him up, tightened around his neck. Like a mirror of his own body he saw Stan’s limp, swaying in the wind. Windchimes.

In real life, he was choking himself- his hands an iron grip around his neck. Kenny, despite the burning, trying desperately to pry them off. Fingers went deeper, furrowed in the skin under a purple-growing face and watering eyes. The more he pulled, the tighter the grip.

“Kyle! Wake up!”

(please dont this i love you)

“What’s going on?” Karen opened the door in polka dot pajamas, her face turning completely white as soon as the image of Kyle strangling himself and her brother crouched over him, yelling, shaking him.

  
“Karen, OUT!” he bellowed, sending the poor girl backward. “Kyle, please! STOP!” 

Every moment of the day before flashed, buzzed in his blood, and all the times he had watched Kyle, listening to him laugh or cry or gripe about whatever was pissing him off that week and he wanted. He wanted more. It couldn’t end like this.

(PLEASE KY COME BACK)

From the hallway, Karen bolted with a plastic cup full of ice cold water. She threw it all over Kyle’s face.

Immediately, the tightness ceased. Kyle was awake, gasping deeply, his entire body contracting with the forceful intake of oxygen, rolling over onto his elbow and coughing harshly. Kenny held Kyle’s wet, cold face in his hands. Karen thought Kyle looked like a startled baby, eyes wide and confused, sputtering, barely able to talk. Even though it was dark, the only light coming from the moon in the window, Karen could see her brother crying.

“Oh my God,” he said in a tone she had never heard before. Sincere, vulnerable, “I thought you were going to leave me.”

…

A gargoyle on the crest of a building, he watched Kyle vigilantly throughout the night. He slept deeply for seven hours, lost between dreams and nightmares. Once, on a wing of emotion, he ran a hand over Kyle’s hair. He felt obsessive, creepy-- but he couldn’t help himself.

Kyle woke up to Kenny’s eyes glued to him, and the loudness of lawn mowers and weed whackers sawing the air. The sounds of summer.

“How are you feeling?” Kenny asked.

The flood of reality was still seeping into him-- Stan, his dad, Cartman trying to attack him. Nothing particularly in order, and the glimpses repeated themselves like all these moments and people were put on plastic cards and some kid was flipping them over and over again on the living room floor.

He swallowed. Dryness. “I’m okay. I think.”

“You really fucking scared me last night, Broflovski.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Kyle sat up stretched, propped himself on his arms, “I should have warned you about the sleep paralysis… and the nightmares. But the sleep paralysis is so rare for me. I just don’t bother talking about it.”

“How often do you have the nightmares?”

“Almost every night.”

“Did they start after…”

“They started long before Stan went missing. He was trying to help me get rid of them.”

“I see,” Kenny leaped off the mattress. He bent down and patted Kyle’s leg. “You probably want coffee.” He didn’t want Kyle to feel like he had to talk anymore. Words were straining him hoarse. 

“Please.”

“What about waffles?”

“No, you don’t have to make me any food. You gave me too much yesterday.”

“It’s not that hard for me to slap a gluten disc into a toaster.”

Kyle rotated, legs stretched across the floor, he hugged himself, neck still splotchy and green-yellow-violet. Kenny stared at him, his heart tightening again. “Do you always strangle yourself during sleep paralysis?”

“No… that’s the thing. Sleep paralysis doesn’t usually mean movement. You’re just frozen and rigid, like, being dead at the bottom of a lake or something. I don’t know. I’m kinda scared… Kenny?”

“Yeah?”

“The funeral’s over.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Are people just going to expect me to get over it now?”

“Of course not. Everyone wants you to feel better, but it’s going to take time.”

“A hundred years, Kenny.”

“What?”

“A hundred years is all it will take. And then no one will know who Stan is. Millions and millions of years are going to pass, the Earth will keep spinning, dogs will keep barking, time will never, ever stop, but I’ll be stuck here forever, in this moment, blaming myself for everything.”

“Kyle…”

“How am I supposed to keep living my life? Everything I do now, I’m going to picture Stan with me. But he won’t be there.” he looked up at Kenny with bloodshot eyes. “What do I do now?”

“Just, one day at a time, Kyle.”

“It should have been me in that casket.”

A chill went through Kenny like cruel, icy lightning, “No.” He looked around his room, the stained carpet and walls, until he found an old, brown leather wallet, and pulled out a card. He leaned down before Kyle, pressing it into his hand. It was a tarot card, infamous for telling people’s fortunes by witches and circus carnivores; wrinkly and torn, but the drawing was clear: a young man in a green tunic, arms wide open, the sun beaming behind him and small dog dancing at his boots: The Fool.

“What is this?”

“This is my favorite tarot card. I want you to have it.”

“I didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

“I dabble for fun,” Kenny explained, “I don’t believe that any of us have real attachments to the universe. We’re just a part of it. That’s kinda what this card is about. We see a fool, but it’s really someone who just has faith in the future, knowing that it’s okay if he’s inexperienced or even a bit naive. We’re always changing- things change, and we just can’t predict what will happen.

I know that you’ll keep Stan with you, always. There won’t be a day that goes by that I won’t think of him. But I hope… I really hope that as you heal, you look at things with fresh eyes and an open heart. 

I’ve noticed that you… I can see that you’re starting to close off, and it’s okay if you want to be alone sometimes or you don’t want to speak, but please, don’t completely check out on us.”

Kenny hugged him, held him there for a few minutes, Kyle squeezed him: “Thank you, Kenny. I love you.”

“I… love you too.”

In the doorway, Karen watched. She started listening in as soon as Kenny turned his back. Kyle hadn’t noticed her either, the two of them were in their own bubble, their own osmosis of intimacy.

Their parents and oldest brother were all waiting at the front door in their Sunday best, Karen fidgeting in her dress and stockings, was told to ask Kenny if he was coming to church. But it was apparent her brother was very busy. She left without saying anything.

…

Kyle was washing his hands in the McCormick bathroom when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The first instinct was to punch it out, but he restrained.

Wendy hadn’t sounded impressed by his facial hair, and he could see why, with its thinness and patchiness. What was she doing now? Was she at the Marsh’s, sleeping in Stan’s bed? Going through his stuff?  _ Their _ stuff? For the first time, he felt jealous. 

His lips were chapped and the whites of eyes were yellow, red-rimmed, his hair scraggly, chaotic. The bruise was blossoming into a darker crescent.

“Why am I so fucking ugly?” he asked his reflection, hands on his cheeks, feeling so incredibly old. 

…

Out in the kitchen, his introverted friend was brewing coffee and toasting waffles. Kyle went back into the bedroom to find his phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Sheila, sent several hours ago.

**8:38 am- Maternal Unit: You did a wonderful job yesterday, Kyle. I am so proud of you for your strength. It’s going to be hard for awhile, but I promise things will get better. Please come home soon so we can sit down and talk like a family again. Your father is sorry. I love you.**

“If he was really sorry, he’d tell me himself,” Kyle muttered, threw the phone on the mattress with a thump.

Something else thumped at the same time. Something in Kenny’s closet. He opened it gently, worried it may have been a toy or some other collectible. Instead, it was a box that had fallen off the top shelf, small books spilled out. He en down and picked one up:  _ Dangers of the Occult.  _

He thumbed through the weighty pages with narrow suspicion.  _ Why would Kenny care about the occult? _

The other books were in the same vernacular vein:  _ The Witches’ Handbook _ (‘if your ear itches, someone is talking about you’) he instinctively scratched his ear,  _ Daughters of the Moon, Cleansing Rituals-  _ this one had Kenny’s handwriting all up in the margins, and was stained by what looked like black tea leaves.

The spines touched his fingertips with the prickling sensation of poison, but it took a backseat to his burning curiosity. 

Another one:  _ The Satanic Bible.  _ Strangely enough, it was a paperback edition, just black with a glowing pink pentagram on the cover. Blinking hard, he opened to the very first page, and the phrase that jumped out to him was “the Christian church thrives on hypocrisy, and that man’s carnal nature will [come] out!”

Then the last page, a few others stole his attention: “Open the gates of Hell!... Add and diminish until the stars be numbered… Open the mysteries of your creation, and make us partakers of the UNDEFILED WISDOM.”

Kyle snapped it shut. In all his years of practicing the Torah, he had never come across something as straightforward and intimidating as that. He dug through the box some more, sickly fascinated by Kenny’s secret “research project.”

Cloth. He felt cloth. It looked like

(no way)

Kenny’s old Mysterion suit that he used when they were just kids, pretending to be superheroes. But it was bigger now, adult-sized.

And it was ripped- a hole in the chest Kyle could fit his fist through.

“What the fuck…”

A glare caught him, reeled him in. At the bottom of the box, next to a silver dagger, was a picture of himself, Stan, and Kenny. He couldn’t remember where they were, but they looked very young. Kyle was in the middle, an arm around both of them, smiling.

In the space between him and Stan, he noticed tiny white veins, like the picture had been folded back several times. To recreate it, he folded it too. Stan completely disappeared from the frame. With a frantic heartbeat, he flipped the picture over. In Kenny’s handwriting, in blurred, black ink, it said: “Photographs serve memory how memory sees fit.”

Kenny’s footsteps were rapidly approaching, but Kyle couldn’t unfreeze, shove everything back into the box, and pretend he saw none of it. Instead, he yanked the dagger out, and by the time Kenny entered the room, ready to announce they could eat in the kitchen, he had it pointed at him.

“What the  _ fuck _ did you do?!” he screamed.

Kenny raised his arms, eyes darting between Kyle’s wild expression and the glinting blade almost touching his chest, “I haven’t done anything.”

“Why do you have all this Satanic shit in your closet? Why do you still have your Mysterion suit? Why does it have a fucking hole the size of my goddamn fist? And I’m pretty I saw blood stains too… And why, why,” he held up the manipulated photo, “Why is the picture like this? What did you have against Stan?”

“Nothing! 

(everything)

I swear!”

“ _ Did you kill him _ ?”

“Kyle, no!”

“ _ Did you kill him and curse me? _ ”

“What?!” he stepped forward, but Kyle didn’t move the dagger, “You should put that down.”

“I can’t. I won’t. You might hurt me.”

Kenny lowered his arms, stared at the seething Kyle. “I would never, ever, hurt you. I’d do anything for you.” That second sentence slipped out of him, he would’ve thought twice before saying that in any other situation, but it was possible he could get stabbed any moment.

(fine let em stab me)

“Then explain to me,  _ now.  _ What the fuck is all this? Are you in a cult or something?”

Kenny slowly shook his head, “I promise, I’m not. I’m just… still trying to find out where I come from.”

“What!”

“If I tell you what’s really going on, you have to try not to freak out, um, even more than you are right now.”

“Try me.”

Kenny closed his eyes for a moment. This was not how he wanted Kyle to find out. Ideally, Kyle would never have to find out at all. But sometimes secrets just can’t live. They fester and find their way out during the ugliest of times. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at Kyle’s tired, dehydrated, lovely face: “I can’t die.”

The dagger lowered slightly. Kyle’s mouth twitched, “you’ve told us this before.”

“I did, but-”

“-it’s bullshit. What fuck is wrong with you? You’re not some character in a comic book, you’re a  _ real person _ .”

“Kyle, I don’t want to scare you, but, I’ve  _ met you _ before, and you’re the most fucking stubborn and pragmatic person in the world. You’re not giving me a choice now. I have to do this.”

“What the-”

The handle was cool compared to the hotness of the room. Kenny breathed steadily, hyper-focused on Kyle’s eyes as he pulled, the blade plunging into his chest. Blood pumped out onto their hands, and they staggered to their knees, falling like unstrung puppets. He pulled it out, felt that familiar metallic taste in his mouth, and threw it across the room. Kyle looked as if all the breath was sucked out of him.

Between raspy breaths, holding the wound, Kenny spoke, his voice rough and austere: “I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. I’ve been burned, decapitated, had my guts ripped out, drowned, poisoned, everything,” he left out ‘strangled’ on purpose, “I’ve tried to tell you before, and you guys always forget-”

“-Kenny this is fucking insane.”

“Believe me, I know. But it’s the truth. Look.”

Gently, he took Kyle’s hands off, wiped away as much excess blood as he could, lifted his shirt. The wound was gone. There wasn’t even a scar.

“What… what the fuck is this?” Kyle fell back, slowly pushing himself away, “What  _ are you _ ?”

“I’m still Kenny. I told you, I’ve always been this way,” he crawled to Kyle, who was backed up against the wall now. “Please don’t be scared of me.”

“This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”

“Kyle, this is real. I’m real,” he pulled Kyle into a shaky hug, “If you think about it, it makes sense. This isn’t the craziest thing to happen around here.”

“I just don’t understand,” Kyle pushed him away, “Okay, maybe you do have some… immortality… traits. But it doesn’t explain the picture. Why is Stan folded out like that? And the weird caption on the back?”

Kenny nervously rubbed his palms on his pants, “Kyle, you’re smart. I know you have to know at this point. It’s not that hard to figure out.”

Knots were forming in Kyle’s stomach, nausea, “No...”

“Fuck, you’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

Dizziness overtook him. “Oh God, no. Not here,” Kyle whimpered, his forehead sweating.

“What?”

Kyle’s mouth popped open and he retched. Clumps of dirt and trickles of blood streamed down his chin.

(im just like stan now)

Worms danced in his lamp.

…

**January 14, 2017**

 

Stan moves through the wind like a black fish, he is blood and music and light, frost on the window, the wing of a crow that will never come back. A heartbeat, ink, wet lips. He crawls back into the car and kisses his angry boyfriend, tasting every part of his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as sweet as this before.

(whatever it takes)

He reaches and clamps his hand around the box of Marlboro and tosses it out the window, reverses, sliding on ice, barreling out of the parking lot. In Kyle’s lap are patches he has to wear on his arm like birth control.

“I don’t want you to suffer anymore. I mean, I don’t want you to get sick one day and then your lungs be in some textbook for med students who never even knew you.”

For now, they can stop fighting- they can go home and make pasta, watch the dog chase his tail, bang their knees on the coffee table, watch 90s sitcoms until the power goes out, light spiced candles left from Christmas and then make love on the couch, kiss each other where it hurts until the flame takes its last hot breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Don't Leave by Trevor Something: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ER9Q5bZy-Xg


	13. Dolls

The first time Kyle saw death was when he was a toddler. He remembered standing in the front yard in the evening, barefoot, tricycle tipped over, its tires covered in mud and grass, the pink and violet tint of the sky, and an opossum scurrying into the street, only to be hit by a van. Flattened flesh and gore-matted fur stretched across the concrete, the creature’s mouth open with its tongue out and black eyes squinted. The van kept going.

Whenever he thinks of that day, he remembers the stench of twisted and exposed entrails. Every time he meets someone, he wonders what their innards look like.

“Kenny can’t die,” he said to himself, cleaning Stan’s dashboard with a wet rag, doors wide open, radio playing softly. Sparky was nearby on the lawn, lounging in a kiddie pool. “Kenny can’t die,” the more he said it out loud, he figured, the more he could get used to it.

“ _ What’s the big deal? I think it would be pretty cool not to be able to die” Kyle put a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. _

_ “Pretty cool?! Do you know what it feels like to be stabbed?” Kenny turned and got in Kyle’s face, “To be shot, decapitated, torn apart, burned, run over--” _

_ “-Kenny, Kenny, calm down!” Stan interjected. _

_ Kenny ignored him, “It’s not pretty cool, Kyle! It fucking hurts! And it won’t go away, and nobody will believe me! Remember this time, try and fucking remember!” _

_ He moved across the room, put a pistol to his mouth. _

The car jolted. Someone had just landed on the roof. Sparky barked. Kenny slid down the windshield on his knees, facing Kyle.

“Speak of the devil,” Kyle muttered. Sparky laid back down as soon as figured out who it was. “Can you calm down with that shit? Someone’s gonna see you.”

Kenny pointed at the spiderweb shatter, “Windshield's cracked.”

“Yeah, I know. That the only thing you notice?”

Kenny looked at him for a moment, fists up on the glass. “No,” he said, studying Kyle’s face, “You’re sweating bullets.”

“Well, it’s hot outside,” Kyle shrugged.

“Turn the A/C on for a sec.”

Kyle almost laughed. If it wasn’t painful, he would have. Kenny rolled off the hood and climbed into the passenger seat, “Is it broken?”

“Stan bought it broken.”

“The hell did he do that for?” Kenny turned the air conditioning knob up, only for nothing to come out.

“He just… I think he just wanted to do something big by himself like he wanted to prove he could be independent. I was always coddling him… like a fragile porcelain doll or something. Also, I think he just felt bad for the car because no one else wanted to buy it.”

Kenny reached over and pressed the hazards button and both the blinkers chimed in rhythm, pushed it again to turn them off, “Yeah, sounds like Stan.”

They listened to radio commercials about restaurants, car dealerships, sex shops, trade schools, all of them interchangable. A couple of days before, when Kyle threw up in front of Kenny for the first time was still very vivid in their minds. Their blood was everywhere, from Kenny’s chest and Kyle’s mouth. Kenny drew a steaming bath and threw Kyle in, clothes and all, tossed variegated colors of leaves and flowers in with him and made him stay in there for two hours.

“Kenny, who else knows about… you?” Kyle had asked, as Kenny poured more hot water and oils over his hair. Incense burned his nostrils.

“Just Karen. And you now. And…”

“And?”

“...Cartman.”

“Cartman knows?!”

Kenny had to explain everything from the beginning. Being younger and just waking up in his bed when it happened, then gradually the pain of the injuries stuck around for awhile after the tree incident and whoever was there could enjoy the spectacle. Including 10-year old Cartman.

When Kyle returned home feeling like an overcooked pork chop, he tried to smoke out of his bedroom window. Black bile came up and he put the cigarette down. He didn’t want it anymore.

Sparky stood up again, wagged his tail as a patrol car rolled up the driveway. The driver immediately zeroed in on the boys. He walked out and approached them.

“Are ya’ll memebers of the Marsh residence?”

Kenny pointed at Kyle, “He  _ technically _ is.”

Officer Goldberg, as his uniform dictated, he leveled his gaze at Kyle. The other officer walked around. “Where’d that bruise on your face come from, son? You been fightin’?”

Kyle rolled his eyes. He hated the accusatory tone cops took up sometimes, “No. It was an accident.”

“Okay, okay. What’s your name?”

“Kyle Broflovski.”

“And you?”

“Kenny McCormick,” Kenny went to shake his hand. Officer Goldberg didn’t take it.

“You two were recently at the River Funeral Home?”

“Yes, sir,” they both replied, hearts beating fast, synchronized.

“Well, unfortunately, everyone there is dead.”

Kyle peered at them, he gripped the rag tighter, “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

“No, son, everyone that  _ works there _ is dead. They’ve been dead since before the Marsh funeral, stacked up on each other in the attic like old Cabbage Patch dolls.”

 

…

 

**COLORADO JUDICIAL COURT**

 

**Re: Kyle D. Broflovski**

 

**Your official court date has been scheduled for July 13, 2017, at 2:30 pm to appeal for the name change process. Please bring your birth certificate and current driver’s license or state ID. You must prepare a statement disproving criminal intent and reasoning behind a legal name change.**

**Contact the court 48 hours in advance if you cannot make your appointment.**

  
  



	14. Solar Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's another short one!

**January 14, 2017**

  
  


Kyle could hear generators down the street, not as loudly as Ike’s sudden violin playing from across the gap between their two houses. The window panes shook.

“I fucking love you, Kyle. I love you so much,” Stan’s breath was a staccato, struggling.

“I love you too, Stan.”

“I’m sorry I was kind of a dick.”

“It’s okay,” Kyle inhaled deeply, cupping Stan’s face, “I’m sorry, too.”

“I hope you’re not just saying that because I’m fucking you right now.”

“No, but it helps,” Kyle smiled.

 

…

 

Wrapped in blankets and body seemed to ward off the crawling frost on the windows. Kyle laid back with his head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed. He could still feel where the tear tracks on his face were, just as they were about to finish.

(dont cry dont cry)

Stan’s head was in his lap, bundled up like a satiated kitten. Kyle absentmindedly scratched his scalp and stroked his hair-- he could swear he could hear his boyfriend purring.

“Kyle?”

“Yeah, baby?”

He could feel Stan’s lips curl into a small smile against his leg.

“I know we couldn’t biologically, but do you think we could have kids?”

Kyle’s hands stopped, he looked down at Stan, who was staring forward at the wall, deep in thought.

“We  _ are _ kids.”

“Yeah, I know. But I mean, someday.”

“Someday is a long ways away, Stan.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it.”

“I suppose not,” Kyle said. He waited for Stan to dive into a long-winded explanation, usually very defensive of his thoughts, but Stan said nothing. 

“Well?” Kyle pressed.

“I don’t know.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I don’t know. Now that I think about, I think I’m scared I might be like my dad.”

Kyle laughed, although he suddenly realized he had the same fear “Should I call you Randy Jr.?”

“Fuck no. Please don’t.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad though, you have a good dad,” Kyle resumed gently running his fingers through Stan’s hair, “And everyone gets traits from their parents that they don’t want. Sometimes I open my mouth and my mom comes out.”

“You can say that again.”

“Hey now-”

Stan turned over and looked up at Kyle, put a hand to his face, “-you’re beautiful, by the way. I don’t care what comes out of your mouth.”

Kyle rolled his eyes, “Stop…”

“You’re right though. I shouldn’t be scared. I’m me. You’re you. And I’m me because you’re you and you’re you because I’m me.”

“...what?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just…” Kyle leaned down, wrapped an arm underneath Stan and the other arm over him; brought him up and kissed him squarely on the mouth, “We should probably sleep. It’s been a long ass day.”

Stan stretched his fingers over Kyle’s chest, “Yeah. I’m really tired. I am so so tired.”

 

…

 

**June 13, 2017**

 

**2:48 am**

  
  


Green Converse shoe descending deeply onto the pedal, almost to the floor, down a dark and empty dirt road, windows down, radio shut off. He eyed the passing ditches as they flickered by in his headlights; considered twisting his elbows and veering off, let himself crash into whatever was there, let someone find his bloodied face halfway through the windshield.

Rows of cornfields emerged, surrounded him on both sides and he remembered all the times that fog took over their morning commute and the school bus ambled along with its flashing light on top. That one morning. The one where he held Stan’s hand romantically for the first time. He wanted to ask if he could kiss him again. Wished he could look over at the passenger seat and ask him to kiss him now.

_ Kids, _ he sped up more,  _ we were just kids. _

No one had any idea that the people who embalmed Stan would have to be embalmed soon too. Or cremated. The detective had shoved photos of their bodies in Kyle and Kenny’s faces, asked if they smelled anything, asked if they thought all the deaths, theirs and Stan’s, were connected. 

“I’m sure you suspect Stan,” Kyle stated, dryly, impatient, sarcastic.

Kenny had cast a worried glance at him, “What about that one woman we saw? With the… tongue thing?”

“You mean this woman?” The detective gave them another picture of, indeed, that woman, whose face was now bust open, like something was trying to crawl out of her face like a chick from an egg.

Kyle closed his eyes and looked away, shuddered.

“This really sucks, sir,” Kenny said, squinting at the detective and the officer standing in the corner, “But we have our own to take care of. We just don’t have any information for you. Sorry.”

Stan was buried later that day in a harried minute as if he wasn’t put in the ground immediately some curse would sway over him and wedge itself into his cold pores; the bells chiming from the nearby church.

As Kyle continued to speed, he pictured again the image of the casket sinking. The temptation to destroy himself gnawed into his heart as an upcoming bridge came into view. He could drive into the water, drown and be at peace. Just end it.

A flashback of Ike almost drowning in mud popped up, severing the fantasy. He slowed down. Ike would miss him if he drove off the bridge now.

He thought of how if the roles were reversed: if it was some alternate universe where it was Kyle being lowered into the earth with Stan watching, he wouldn’t want him to be driving around at 3 am contemplating killing himself. He would want Stan to take care of himself, very much how he had wanted him to in this universe, while he was still alive.

Finally, he slowed down and came to a complete stop, stepped out of the Jeep, and walked to the bridge’s railing. A wind ran through the forest that lined the river, making the trees look like dark, swaying beasts.

He thought of Kenny, how good he had been to him lately, how like a rock he could be, even though he was feeling the pain of losing Stan too. 

Kyle didn’t want to make Kenny have to identify his body the way he did for Stan, though it would more than likely be Kyle’s parents having to do it and not Kenny, Kenny wouldn’t want to see him dead in any form. He felt so weak next to Kenny now, his life tangible, maybe meaningless. One wrong move and Kyle could be gone forever, no Satanic or superhero powers could save him.

Still waters reflected the full moon.

 

Kyle climbed back into the car and pulled his phone out of the cupholder, paused for a minute, staring at the lock screen of himself, Stan and Sparky before swiping.

 

**3:18 am- Kyle: Hey Kenny… I know that you probably won’t see this until you wake up, but I just want you to know that I’m so appreciative of everything you’ve done for me the past couple of months, and even before then. I remember when you tried to comfort me when I didn’t make the all-state team. I remember when you tried to take my books so I could tie my boots. I remember your face when you dragged me out of the shed after that fucking raccoon attack. You said that I don’t remember everything, but I remember those moments. I remember a lot. What you do doesn’t go unnoticed, and I honestly wish there were more people in the world like you. Thank you… for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.**

 

He sighed, placed the phone down, ran his hands over his hair, grabbed his keys, and started the ignition. Surprisingly, he heard vibrating coming from the cupholder.

 

**3:21 am- Kenny: I don’t know what to say… thank you <3 You really didn’t have to say those things but thank you.**

**I don’t know what I’d do without you either.**

 

**3:23 am- Kyle: Whoa holy shit I didn’t think you’d be up… and well I mean it :) so just take it lol**

 

**3:24 am- Kenny: Lol yeah I just kinda randomly woke up, idk why**

 

**3:25 am- Kenny: But don’t worry, you didn’t wake me up or anything, you’re gucci**

 

**3:26 am- Kyle: Lol okay welp get some slep**

 

**3:27 am- Kenny: :)**

  
  


Kyle wasn’t ready to go home just yet. 

He drove down to Stark’s Pond and walked out on the deck where he and Stan would fish. Taking off his shoes, he thought of his 13th birthday and the jolt of the hook going into his skin.

_ I guess you could say you... reeled me in, _ Kyle would joke about it every year.

Stan would frown and shake his head,  _ Stop! I still feel bad about that. _

Kyle walked to the edge of the deck, swatting at mosquitos that landed on his arms, and stared into the black water. He couldn’t remember how deep it went. It didn’t matter.

He turned around, his back to the world, and fell, letting the cold water envelop his body, mask his face. Holding his breath, keeping his eyes closed, he pretended he was his own planet in cold space, warbling sounds of swimming fish like searing stars and the vastness of open water a visceral portal. 

(if i cried here)

Eventually, his body floated up to the surface and he crawled out, lied down on the deck, wet clothes seeping into the wood, and stared over the stars. 

 

 

 

["Solar Gap" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wqx-Mwn6pEg)by Hinds


	15. Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back :) The semester is over now, so I'm hoping I can update this weekly now. Thanks for reading!

**Stan Marsh journal entry (date unknown)**

 

**I want to listen to your body living outside of me but also inside me in my chest and neck and toes, legs like beams of moon, and all your hair in my mouth and your eyes in my stomach, peels lurching and when I kiss you I taste sickness and when I see your face, I think your tongue and your teeth and my tongue and my teeth on a bible on a bridge in the river in the sewer in the sand cursing names and caskets bred into lonely pipes of dreaming to caress the lobes of your ears and hold your head against my chest so you can feel, feel how much my heart hurts and hear how fast it raptures when you come near and the moss in my ribcage-**

 

**I just want you to know.**

 

**The eye of the forest is the eye of my heart, mapping out my faith, watching the birds in my stomach and their drenched wings of acid, beautifully useless, now concerned with vitality and the color red, glass beads coated in sugar-**

 

**Did I dream last night?**

 

**I don‘t think I did.**

**...**

Kenny lies belly-down on the mattress, feet in the air, hugging a stained pillow. His right foot is cramping from squeezing his toes together. He rolls his ankles in circles until the cramp goes away. But now his left foot is cramping. He keeps his feet still, suspended in air until they go numb. He finally sets his feet down, shifts his weight so the left half of his body is immersed in sheets and his left foot is hanging off the side of the bed.

(who owns this body)

He glances out the window, debris floats over the grass with the wind. In the distance he can hear dogs barking, neighbors yelling. He wants to get out of this small room, with its shag carpeting forever stained by marijuana smoke and beer stains and bad memories. 

He wanted to feel alive again, amidst all this death, sourness like the breath of a sick child. Breathing heavily, he flopped onto his back and grabbed his phone. Anything. He would do anything.

**2:48 am- Kenny:** **You up?**

**2:50 am- Bebe: I WAS sleeping. What do you want? I have a feeling I already know tho**

**2:51 am- Kenny: Come over. Or I can come over there. Or I could pick you up and we can go somewhere**

**3:06 am- Kenny: Hello?**

**3:07 am- Bebe: Another time**

**3:08 am- Kenny: This is something that needs to be taken care of right now**

**3:08 am- Bebe: Yeah I can’t help you with that. And Wendy‘s staying here now so that would just be hella rude**

**3:10 am- Kenny: Oh… well… What’s Wendy up to?**

**3:10 am- Bebe: FUCK OFF**

**3:11 am- Bebe: It’s you and your hand tonight dude. Sorry not sorry**

**3:12 am- Bebe: But you can come sometime this week. I need to talk to you anyway**

**3:13 am- Kenny: Oh god**

**3:13 am- Bebe: What?**

**3:14 am- Kenny: If you‘re pregnant please just tell me now**

**3:14 am- Bebe: Haha, not pregnant**

**3:15 am- Kenny: Not something to “haha” about regardless**

He throws the phone aside and runs his hands over his face, digging his palms into his eyes. He tossed and turned in the blankets, pulling them up between his legs, holding the pillow on his face.

He itched.

It was a deep itching, crying into the walls of his ribs and into his groin and back to his heart, his insides a map of intimate wounds and breaks, his outsides a skin suit of bruises and places that had been torn but never kissed, dead but alive, pulling on his hair and feeling the scalp sting, his heart slow and dull, pushing the pillow into his face until his chest shrunk.

The phone screen lit up as he threw the pillow to the side, his nostrils burning and chest aching. Maybe it would be Bebe changing her mind.

To his surprise, it was Kyle. 

**3:18 am- Kyle: Hey Kenny… I know that you probably won’t see this until you wake up, but I just want you to know that I’m so appreciative of everything you’ve done for me the past couple of months, and even before then. I remember when you tried to comfort me when I didn’t make the all-state team. I remember when you tried to take my books so I could tie my boots. I remember your face when you dragged me out of the shed after that fucking raccoon attack. You said that I don’t remember everything, but I remember those moments. I remember a lot. What you do doesn’t go unnoticed, and I honestly wish there were more people in the world like you. Thank you… for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.**

He read and reread three times before trying to type a reply.

“Come over.” Backspace. (really kenny you thirsty fuck why would he want to sleep with you when stan-)

“I love you.” Backspace. (fuCK no)

“Haha thanks dude.” Backspace. (not something to haha about backspace space backspace just say what you mean asshole)

3 **:21 am- Kenny: I don’t know what to say… thank you <3 You really didn’t have to say those things but thank you.**

**I don’t know what I’d do without you either.**

**3:23 am- Kyle: Whoa holy shit I didn’t think you’d be up… and well I mean it :) so just take it lol**

**3:24 am- Kenny: Lol yeah I just kinda randomly woke up, idk why**

**3:25 am- Kenny: But don’t worry, you didn’t wake me up or anything, you’re gucci**

**3:26 am- Kyle: Lol okay welp get some slep**

**3:27 am- Kenny: :)**

He wonders what it would be like to have him there at that moment, sharing the body.

“Just take it,” he smiles to himself, gradually reaching into his boxers and feeling the wiry area before the pronounced echo of sirens and crimson and blue lights filled his bedroom.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, pulling his hand out, the snap of elastic hitting his skin. “Here we fucking go again.”

He rolls off the mattress and pulls a long-sleeved black shirt over his head, black sweatpants, and finally, the black mask, covering all of his skin. He hasn’t been able to fix the hole and bloodstains on his suit yet, and if he had to look like typical trailer trash running around at 4 am, then so be it. 

He slips out the window and into the streets.

(ive never owned this body)

…

Skeeter’s Bar was so loud sometimes that Kenny figured, if he set up camp on the roof, no one would notice. And he was right. It wasn’t much, but he had a plastic bin with some blankets and pillows, so if he didn’t feel like going home just yet, he could lay out and look at the sky. He didn’t care how frigid it could get. It was better than World War 3 at home. 

He leans over the side, lays his head down on his crossed arms like a cherub on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and watch the various drunks waddle their way out to their Uber or just walk home. Turned out that that night he wasn’t needed. He didn’t even get shot this time. Just two drunks messing things up at the 7-11.

Among that night‘s waddling drunks, he recognizes a yarmulke. Without thinking, he jumps down in front of Gerald Broflovski and pulls him into the alley.

“What the fuck, who the fuck, what the fuck are you doing, asshole?” Gerald‘s eyes are swollen, dehydrated, and red; Kenny can tell even from the dim streetlights. He whips out his dagger, the one Kyle had found in his box, points it at Gerald‘s throat.

“I will only say this once you piece of shit, so open your fucking ears. If you ever lay a hand on Kyle Broflovski again, I will fucking kill you. I don’t care if it’s even a shove. If it happens again, I’m slitting your fucking throat.”

Gerald smiles, his hands up by his head, “Broflovski? He won’t be a Broflovski much longer. Little shit is changing his name to Marsh.”

Kenny hesitates for a moment. He knew that that would happen someday, but wasn‘t sure when. He shook his head and brought the dagger closer to Gerald’s throat, “Whatever. If you ever hit Kyle Marsh again, you’re dead. Got it?”

“Jesus, fuck, okay.” Gerald throws his hands over his face.

“Good.” Kenny slowly backs away, turns on his heel to leave the alley and finally go to sleep. He‘s had enough for today.

Gerald calls after him. “Hey, aren’t you that Mysterion kid? You‘re still around?”

Kenny stops, looks out at the quiet street, the towering trees in the field ahead, “Yes.”

“Well, what kind of hero threatens to kill people?”

(ive been wondering that myself)

Looking back over his shoulder at the intoxicated middle-aged man, he can’t help but wonder how similar Kyle will look when he‘s that age, “What kind of father beats his kid?”

Gerald says nothing, leaning against a trash can for support.

Kenny looks back out at the trees, the black sky, “I think we both know the answer to each other’s questions.”

Before Gerald can say anything else, Kenny scales the wall of Jimbo’s Guns and disappears to the next roof.

…

**Kyle Broflovski‘s journal**

**June 16, 2017**

**Did I dream last night?**

**I know I did but it felt so real.**

**I think I talked to Stan yesterday.**

**I talked to Stan yesterday.**

**He sat on the edge of my bed and got mud everywhere and wires were poking out of his mouth and the furrows in his neck fluctuated as he spoke. He was barefoot and his fingers were bony, his nose was gone.**

**Then he said he was happier now than he was with me.**

**He’s better off without me,  I knew it, I‘ve always known it.**

**I looked down at my own wrists and they were cut open with strings coming out, like puppet strings and I pulled and they were bloody and I pulled more and I saw the white fatty tissue clinging to it and I just kept pulling and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and I pulled a n d I p u l l ed p  u lled I pu llledd I pulled and I p u l l e d and I**


	16. Side A

**June 21, 2017**

 

A knock on the door.

Kyle opened up to see Sharon on the steps, clutching a small and flat package. He rubbed his eyes, still recovering from an impromptu four-hour nap, and stepped aside.

“Hi Mrs. Marsh, you can come in.”

She shook her head. “I just wanted to stop by and give you this,” she reached out with the package.

“What is it?” he asked, taking it and turning over the brown sleeve in his hands.

“A birthday card… from Stan. I found it in his closet.”

“Oh,” he said, tucking it under his arm, “Thank you for bringing it.”

Sharon gave a curt nod and smiled, “How’s your mom and brother?”

“They’re okay. Dealing with me and everything. How are you?”

“One day at a time.”

“Yeah…”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.  _ Anything,  _ okay? You just call us.”

“Thank you.” Kyle wished he could tell her how much he needed Stan back.

She gave Kyle another sad smile before turning around and walking back across the lawn to her house.

Kyle closed the door, walked over to the couch, and drew a blanket around his shoulders before sitting down. It was a brick in his hands.

With a shaking hand, he tore off the top, reached in and found another envelope, bright green, with his name in Stan’s small handwriting. Opening that with a now sweating hand, he pulled out a blue, white, and green birthday card with holographic lettering that read “YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALL THE FEELINGS.” He opened it, the inside read:

“You’re everything I always wanted and needed. I’m so happy I get to call you mine. Happy birthday,” in gold calligraphy.

At the bottom, in black ink: “Love, Your Super Best Boyfriend, Stan.” Below that, he wrote “Sparky” with an arrow pointing to a drawing of a paw print.

Kyle felt like he might puke. Stan had everything planned out. If Kyle hadn’t been so damn scared of their future, they might have been okay.

(but i had to fuck it up)

In the brown envelope, there was a cassette tape with song titles written on the insert and lined papers stapled together. A letter.

He smoothed the papers across his lap and began to read.

**May 26, 2017**

**Hey Kyle :)**

**I can’t believe another year has gone by and we’re 18. Even though I’ve known you my whole life. I find new reasons to love you every year. More like** **every day.** **Every second.**

**And because I’m mushy, I burned you a CD. Then I recorded it onto a cassette so we can listen to it in my car that you hate, haha.**

**Tonight, I’m hoping to take you out. I’m hoping that we can go somewhere nice and I’ll spill my guts out to you, and you’ll say what I hope you’ll say.**

**Or, I’m an idiot and couldn’t wait to ask you so you already know what I’m talking about here.**

**Happy birthday, Kyle.**

**I love you.**

 

**Stan**

 

**SIDE A**

**“Saturday” // Sparklehorse**

**This is the perfect introduction to how I feel, or rather, how long it took me to tell you how I feel. I was so confused for so long (even though my default state of being is in confusion), it took a lot of nights just lying awake and thinking. I thought it was just one of the puberty things. All that thinking and overthinking led to thinking about you and I realized I needed to tell you. I held it in for so long, and it was so painful… but that first time we kissed made it all worth it.**

**_I’d walk to Hell and back to see you smile, on a Saturday_ **

 

For as long as Kenny could remember, the McCormick family had to be creative to get the things they wanted or needed. In his father’s case, it was the want. He was a lopsided Robin Hood, taking from the rich and not having to give to the poor because he was The Poor. It seemed wrong to Kenny still, considering everyone in South Park had middle-class wealth at best except for Token’s family.  Just like his own father, he had seen Stan’s parents, Butter’s parents, Clyde’s father, Cartman’s mother, all come home from work exhausted, only wanting to flop onto the couch with a T.V. dinner as anyone else would. The only other person that was the upper-middle-class was Gerald Broflovski, but he often helped the scummiest of clients and took no pride in his work.

Kenny’s father hated Kyle’s father. Kenny could tell by the squinting of his eyes, the body language of sizing each other up: it was a mutual distaste, forced to be civil to keep this tight-knit neighborhood from unraveling.

Kenny remembered being six or seven, sitting in the passenger’s seat of Stuart McCormick’s truck in front of that familiar forest-green house. It was the Broflovski’s 4th of July barbeque. Kenny stared at his reflection in the side mirror (OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR) while his father smoked, the windows rolled down, the air a tie-up between the smell of smoke and gravel.

He tapped the cigarette out in the cupholder and smirked at his second-born, estranged son. “Your mom needs to cut your hair,” he said, grabbing the blonde locks. “You’re getting a mullet.”

Kenny shrugged him off. “No, ‘cause she puts a bowl on my head and cuts around it. It makes me look like a dweeb.”

“Hey, be nice. She does her best.”

Kenny looked out at the road. The sounds of Bruce Springsteen music, laughter, and chatter floated over. He knew his mom did her best. At the moment, Carol was at home, nursing his ill older brother with saltine crackers, chicken noodle soup, and ginger ale, while they both sweltered in the heat, the only relief coming from a single electric fan.

“So you remember what I told you. Got your bag?”

“Mm-hm.” Kenny pulled an old drawstring backpack from the floor.

“Good. As I’m talking to the other grown-ups, you take a couple of trips to the cooler and grab what you can. Coke, lemonade, water, mostly water. And grab some beer for your old man, too,” said Stuart, patting his belly. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had a cold beer.”

“Two days isn’t that long,” Kenny muttered under his breath.

“Don’t do that shit. C’mon, Kenny, if you’re gonna be a little asshole, at least speak up so you sound like you mean it. You’re too damn quiet all the time. You wanna be a wallflower the rest of your life?”

“What’s a wallflower?” It sounded pretty to him.

“No one to dance with. You’re just in the background. People will forget about you.”

“Oh.” He pulled the bag tighter into his lap. Wallflower. Forgettable. (they always forget)

“Instead of being a background character, Kenny, be more like… uh, what’s your favorite animal?”

“Opossum.”

“An op- what? I thought you would say a shark or a dinosaur or something.”

“Sharks and dinosaurs are cool. But I like opossums best.”

“God damn it, no wonder that son of a bitch has been hanging around the house. You been feedin’ it?”

“Who? Mr. Possy?”

“God damn it,” Stuart repeated, he stubbed out the cigarette on the dashboard. He had Carol’s senior photo, faded orange from the sun, wedged int he glass in front of the speedometer. “Whatever. Just sneak in there like the little opossum you are, and get dad a beer or two, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And don’t let that Cartman kid see you. He’ll rat us out. Kid’s an asshole. Kyle too. I can already tell, he’s gonna be just like his dad.”

 

**“I’ll Be Your Man”// Hinds**

**_I’ll clean your blood of all the venom. I’ll be your man._ **

**I’ll always be your man, no matter what. I hope you know that.**

 

It was the first time Kyle had visited Kenny at work in a while. The other few times he felt awkward and unwelcome. Kenny wouldn’t talk much to him and Stan, he was running around between cars from 8 to 7 every day . Too damn busy. They stopped visiting after they saw Kenny mouth the word “fuck” as they walked in.

But things were different now. Butters was there, helping Kenny with everything from holding the flashlight to rotating the tires. Kenny had been right- he was a fast learner, smarter than people gave him credit for.

Kyle hung out in the waiting room, oil and gasoline fumes clung to the air, someone taped NAPA posters to the wood-paneled walls, a coffee table sat in the middle, littered with two-year-old magazines. He picked up one with Britney Spears on the cover and flipped through. Small Tupperware bowls filled with hot stew sat on the floor next to him. “The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis and the News played on the shop’s radio. A low buzzing resounded on the other side of the wall, reminding Kyle of a tattoo parlor.

“I need a new tattoo,” he muttered to himself, flipping through the photo set of Britney smiling in a field of sunshine with her sons, thinking about how much Stan was twitching when he got the dog paw scarred onto his wrist. Every time the artist lifted up the needle, Stan’s leg jolted.

“Sorry,” she said, “Everything’s connected, and wrists are really sensitive.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Stan replied, sipping root beer out of a can with a straw.

Kyle rolled his eyes and looked over at the art prints on the wall, the shelf with at least ten cacti on it. The artist, Catherine, or Cat for short, cleared her throat then and said, “My friend deals with a lot of shit, and when she starts to feel like she might hurt herself, she comes here. She tells me about what’s going on in her life and I give her a tattoo. It’s called pain therapy.”

Stan looked down at his wrist while she spoke, wiping away excess ink, “That’s pretty cool, actually. If I did that, I’d probably have fucking sleeves.”

“You’d look good with sleeves,” Kyle had said.

Kenny and Butters opened the door, Butters wearing clean jeans and a Hufflepuff tee shirt.

“Siesta time!” He grabbed his keys off a nearby desk and twirled them on his finger.

“Where are going, Butters?” asked Kyle, even though he was looking at Kenny, who was wiping his grease-streaked face with a rag.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this, Kyle,” he threw the rag aside and put his hands on his hips. “Go ahead, Butters.”

Butters hesitated, “When you say it like that, Ken, it makes me think that Kyle  _ isn’t _ going to love what I’m about to say.”

“Oh, just tell me already.”

“Butters has a lunch date… with Heidi Turner.”

“Shut up, no way,” Kyle laughed, putting the magazine back on the table. He had a feeling they would try again, having been an on again off again couple throughout middle and high school.

“Yeah, apparently that talk I had with him about journeying outside of this petri dish didn’t work,” Kenny said.

“Hey, I love her, and I’m sorry, but,” Butters looked over to Kyle, “After everything that’s happened these past few weeks, I don’t want to… you know.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Kyle said quietly. “Have a good time, Butters.”

“Thanks. See ya later, fellas!” Butters twirled his keys again and walked out the glass door, bells chiming over him. Kenny locked the door behind him.

“Welp, that’s not how intense that conversation was supposed to end,” he said, turning off the “OPEN” sign.

Kyle shrugged, “It’s whatever.”

Kenny put his fists in his pockets and sat down next to him.

“So what’s up, Brof- Kyle?”

“I brought you some lunch,” Kyle reached down and picked up the stews and plastic forks in their Ziploc bag. “It’s my mom’s beef stew. She makes it every Monday night. I fucking love it.”

“You didn’t have to,” Kenny said, but he took the bowl anyway. “Any particular reason?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

“It’s only been a couple of days. Holy shit, this is good,” he said, raising the fork to his mouth again.

“Yeah, I know, but I’m used to seeing you every day now, so two days feels like a long time.”

Kenny looked down at his feet for a moment. By God, Kyle actually missed him. He set the bowl down on the coffee table. “Do you want a drink? I’ve got Pepsi, lemonade, water…”

“Sure, Pepsi’s good.”

“You got it,” Kenny reached into the mini-fridge under his desk, brought them out each a can.

“This is gonna make me burp a lot, I’m sorry,” Kyle popped open the top.

“No apology needed because honestly, same.”

A few minutes passed, the two silently eating and drinking, top 80s hits playing in the background. Kyle’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Sheila.

 

**12:36 pm- Maternal Unit: Where are you? Wendy came to the house looking for you**

 

“Why would Wendy be looking for me?” Kyle asked out loud.

Kenny leaned over and looked at the screen, “Maybe she wants to say ‘bye’ before she leaves.”

“She doesn’t leave for a few days. It’s gotta be something else.”

“Do you need to go?”

“No, I wanna stay here.”

 

**12:38 pm- Kyle: I’m working w Kenny right now. Be back for dinner**

 

“You sure?”

“Absolutely,” he slid the phone back into his pocket, “I’ve kinda been wanting to talk to you about some stuff.”

Kenny took another swig, wiped his mouth with his arm, “Like what?” He tried to say as cool as possible, but if he had been wearing a heart monitor, he’d be fucked.

“Did you… Did you confront my dad the other night? I mean, I can’t think of who else it would be considering he said it was Mysterion, but he was also drunk, so…”

“Yeah, it was me,”

“Oh god, why? Dude, he was freaking the fuck out.”

“I couldn’t help it. I saw him and I remembered what he did to you, and I just… saw red.”

“Okay, well, I appreciate it, but I don’t need you to be fighting battles for me, okay? You’ve got your own to deal with. I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

“ _ Yes,  _ I can. I’m not going to be the Aunt May to your Spider-Man.”

“If anything, you’d be Mary Jane.”

“Peter Parker’s girlfriend?”

“Yes, well, wait, no. Only because of your hair. No other reason.”

“Oh, okay… Sure, I guess.”

“Um, this was really thoughtful of you,” Kenny said suddenly. He handed Kyle the now empty bowl, “It was really good. Thank you.”

“Cool, I’m glad you liked it,” he snapped the lid on and put it back on the floor, “And you’re welcome… So, what now? What do you usually do on your lunch hour?”

“Usually,  I’ll nap in my car. I don’t get a lot of sleep at night, so… yeah. Sorry, that’s boring.  But since you’re here, we can do something else.”

“Actually, a car nap sounds amazing right now.”

“Seriously?”

“Dude, yes. I am so fucking tired.”

“Ha, okay then.”

As they made their way out to the truck, Kyle received another message from Sheila.

“I call shotgun!” Kyle reached for the handle.

Kenny groaned. They got inside, rolled the windows down, and leaned the seats back. He looked at the message.

 

**12:43 pm- Maternal Unit: When you get a chance, Wendy wants to talk to you. I think you should consider what she has to say.**

 

“Hm,” he said, before putting it away. 

“What?” asked Kenny. His fingers interlaced across his stomach.

“Nothing, just my mom.”

“How is your mom?”

“She’s okay. Uh, how’s yours?”

Kenny shrugged. “Could be better. She’s dealing with my dad’s bullshit right now. He’s been giving Karen a hard time because she has to go to summer school.”

“Summer school! Why?”

“She’s failed chemistry twice now, and I don’t know, she just really struggles with it.”

“I could tutor her.”

“I know you could, but I won’t ask you to.”

“You don’t have to because I’m offering.”

“You barely even know my sister.”

“Well, the good thing about chemistry is that it creates  _ bonds _ .”

“I will kick you out of this truck, Kyle.”

“No, you won’t,” the sun shifted, they pulled the visors down to get the shine out of their eyes.

“Would you actually tutor her? She really needs help.”

“I’d love to tutor your sister, Kenny. Maybe she just needs a different way of learning it, who knows.”

“Well, I… I really appreciate it. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem, really. Speaking of learning, I’ve been looking into your powers.”

“Huh? You mean like research?”

“What else would I mean? And yeah, it’s interesting. Most of the things I find about immortality are speculative though. A lot of fictional stuff but there’s a lot of truth in fiction. And there are so many legends from so many cultures… I haven’t been able to find one that specifically matches what you’ve been through, so, my only logical conclusion is that you’re just special.”

“Sounds underwhelming when you put it like that,” Kenny closed his eyes. He loved listening to Kyle talk, but his voice was also smooth enough to put him to sleep. And he needed to sleep.

“Nah. You’re your own story, Kenny.”

Kyle closed his eyes too. He felt warm.

 

They woke to Butters and Heidi leaning in the windows.

“C’mon, boss, rise and shine,” Butters nudged Kenny’s shoulder, “We still gotta power wash that engine on that Toyota.”

“Hey, Kyle. Long time, no see,” Heidi looked down at him.

He rubbed his eyes, “Oh, hey Heidi.”

“Those naps are never long enough,” Kenny opened the door. He gave Kyle’s arm a squeeze before going back into the shop with Butters.

“So, how are you?” Kyle sat up.

“I’m good! How have you been?”

Kyle gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded curtly, “Yep.”

She tucked a tendril of chestnut hair behind her ear. “I heard about what happened to your brother. Is he okay?”

“Better now. Still fucked up though.”

“Yeah, I saw they put up police tape around that sinkhole or whatever.”

“I know,” he said. He put his hand on the door. She moved aside so he could get out. “It doesn’t seem right, but I don’t know what else can be done.”

“Sometimes I feel like this whole town is sinking,” her eyes turned glossy, solemn, “Like every day we get pushed further to Hell.”

“Um. You okay there, Heidi?”

“Yeah, I don’t… I’m sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, “My head hurts. It feels like my brain is swelling. I should go home.”

“I can take you home if you want.”

“No, it’s… Kyle?”

“What?”

“I know that you know because it’s in the police report, but, I saw Stan on his last night.”

Kyle sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “What about it?”

“He was so sad. We tried to get him to come with us, but he said he just wanted to go for a walk. God, he looked so sad…”

“Did he tell you it was my fault?”

She looked up at him. Kyle noticed she looked paler than she was a few seconds ago. “No… Kyle, it’s just, I don’t remember him having a rope or anything. No backpack, just himself.”

“He… he might have had something already set up-”

“-Something seems off about all of this, Kyle. I know I’m overstepping my boundaries but something in my gut is telling me that we’re missing something.”

Kyle chewed on his lip for a moment. He thought of being in that prison, spitting threats at Cartman, telling him he knew in his gut that he had done something.

“Always go with your gut,” he said.

**“You Take My Breath Away”// Queen**

**The first time I heard this song, I cried. I thought of you. I mean, every song I hear is about you. This is one of my favorite Queen songs. It’s beautiful, like you.**

**_Every breath that you take, any sound that you make, is a whisper in my ear, I could give up all my life for just one kiss, I would surely die if you dismiss me from your love_ **

**_You take my breath away._ **

Kenny walked around Bebe‘s room, hands in his pockets. She opened her dresser drawer and piled shorts on her arm.

"This is a cute picture ,” he said, pulling out a bejeweled photo from her bookshelf. It was of her and Wendy on a field trip to the Denver Zoo in fourth grade. 

She stuffed some tank tops into a suitcase, “The one of me and Wendy? I like that one too.”

“Did you always have this out or did you put it up when she started staying here?”

Bent down over her bed, glittering eyeshadow flickering under the orange bedroom light, she smiled. “I had it put away for a couple of years. But after a while I forgave her and put it back out. It’s not her fault she had to move.”

“So, you’re really doing it then. You’re just going to pack up everything and move. I thought you were supposed to work at Sonic this summer. Bring people fries, skate around in a little polyester skirt or something?”

“Hmm, let’s see. Move to France with my best friend or spend the summer working and inevitably get pregnant by Mr. Can’t Find A Condom Oops Looks Like I’m Gonna Make You A Toaster Strudel.”

“Okay, ouch. And noted.” For a moment he fantasized about packing everything up himself, leaving town with Karen and starting over somewhere else. He could. Over the past couple of years, he could save some money from the cars he fixed. Enough for a small house, but they would still need a roommate. He wondered if Kyle would move, too. “What did your parents say about it? I mean, it’s a pretty big move. Aren’t you scared? Do you even know French?”

“I know ‘oui’ and ‘je ne sais pas’ because that means ‘I don’t know’.”

“Je ne sais pas,” Kenny repeated, “I’ll have to remember that one. But seriously, aren’t you terrified? This is a whole ass other country here.”

“Of course I’m terrified,” she smoothed a hand over her clothes, her bangled wrist clanging, “But I don’t care if my parents want me to or not. I have to follow my heart. You only get one.”

“My heart has the tenacity of a baked potato, I think.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You had to be there.”

Kenny placed the photo back next to a hardcover copy of  _ Alice in Wonderland.  _ “Oh, cool, I loved this book when I was a kid,” he said, touching its spine.

“It’s not a book. It’s a box, and it has my weed in it.”

“Oh.” He meandered over to Bebe’s vanity. Her makeup was scattered all over like a discontented artist had a fit.

“But that’s actual makeup.”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me. I’m a princess,” he grinned.

“Yeah, Princess Beard, maybe.”

“ _ What?” _

“‘Cause you have a beard? On your face?”

“Yes. Yeah, I know what you meant… Who the hell names these things, anyway?” He asked, lifting a bottle of green nail polish, “‘My Favorite Martian’?”

A tube of dark red lip gloss: “Hot Sauce?”

A tin of purple eyeshadow: “Finger Prince?”

A compact of bright pink blush: “ _ Orgasm?” _

She walked over and took it out of his hand, “It’s not as easy as you think.”

“I bet I could do it.”

“Yeah?” She picked up a red lip liner, “Give a name to this one.”

“Uh… rouge,” he stated, pointing at the liner.

“That’s just French for red.”

“Looks like we both know more French than we thought we did.”

“Try again, McCormick.”

“Okay,” he looked at the color again. It seemed like a cherry red but saying cherry would be too obvious. He thought of Kyle’s hair. He thought of freckles. (it wasnt even that long ago when-) “Chickenpox.”

“Ew, chickenpox?! Why?”

“It kinda looks like one of Karen’s markers that I used.”

“Huh?”

“Karen got chickenpox a few years ago, and my brother and I already had it, so I took her marker, it kind of had that color, and drew dots all myself so she wouldn’t feel alone. She didn’t take me up on my bullshit, but I think she appreciated the gesture.”

Bebe crossed her arms and smiled at him, “Oh yeah, I remember when pretty much all of us had it at the same time.”

“Yeah, good times… So what’s the real name?”

She squinted at the plastic pencil. “Juicy Cherry.”

“Ha.”

“I’m gonna call it chickenpox now though.”

“Oh god, I just remembered when Kyle was like, the only one not getting sick, and his mom wanted him to get it and get it over with, so she had him stay at my house and had me try to spit in his mouth so he’d get it.”

“Is that when it started?” Bebe smirked.

“When what started?”

“Your endless desire to raw dog Kyle.”

“… That is a frivolous assumption, ma’am.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, sit down, Kenny.”

Kenny didn’t move, he stared at her, hoping that this 5’4” girl with a pink scrunchie in her hair was fucking with him.

“I said  _ sit _ ,” she shoved her palm in his chest, forcing him to sit on the end of the bed, turned and pulled the chair out from her desk and sat across from him, clasped her hands around her knees. “Kenny, I don’t know how you could think that people wouldn’t notice.”

Kenny swallowed, his eyes watered. “Kyle hasn’t noticed.”

“Kyle isn’t really good at hints. I can say that with authority.”

“It’s not that Kyle didn’t catch your hints, Bebe. He just didn’t like you. He didn’t like girls yet- oh, wait. I don’t even know if Kyle likes girls  _ now.” _

“I thought Kyle was gay.”

“He is. Wait, I don’t know. He was with Stan for so long, we just kinda went with gay.”

“You never asked him?”

“How the hell am I supposed to ask that? ‘Hey bro, you gay?’”

“Are  _ you _ gay?”

“No…”

“So you’re bi?”

“I guess. I think I’m just perverted.”

“Okay, we’re getting off topic,” Bebe straightened herself, put a hand behind her neck. “Kenny, I love you. You’ve been a great friend, and… I shouldn’t have been sleeping with you. You’ve been hurting. You go around and you try to help everyone else but you’re like… disintegrating. I think you sleep around because you’re looking for intimacy.”

“You can stop now,” Kenny said in a low voice.

“No, shut up. You play therapist with everyone else, so now I’m doing it to you. You sleep around because you want love and you don’t know how else to get it. You have to face the truth, Kenny, or it’s going to eat you from the inside out.”

Kenny looked down at the carpet. He gripped the sheets. His throat felt dry, crackling. “I… I’m in love with Kyle. And I feel horrible about it. Like, guilty. I don’t have the right.”

“You don’t have the right? How?”

“I don’t know. Stan was my best friend, and no one wants to be the guy that’s in love with their best friend’s boyfriend. And now it’s worse. It’s so much worse.”

“Kenny. I don’t want to sound cliche, but you can’t help how you feel. You’ve done all the right things- it’s not like you tried to sabotage their relationship or anything. You were respectful. You let Kyle go, I mean, that’s actual love.”

Kenny stood up. He wanted to go home. “Yeah, I let him go. But now he’s back in my fucking life again, and it’s like sixth grade all over again.”

“You have to tell him.”

“That is  _ insane,  _ Bebe. Stan hasn’t even been in the ground for two weeks and you think I should tell him  _ that? It’s not the right time.” _

“When is there ever an actual right time for anything? This might be your last chance to.”

“Why?”

Bebe reached back and tightened her ponytail. “Wendy is going to ask Kyle to move with us. She thinks he’s wasting his life here.”

“You better be fucking kidding, dude.”

“I’m serious. I don’t know if he will, but… you better say something soon in case he does.”

Reaching down to tighten his shoelaces, Kenny fumed, “Fuck my life.”

Bebe extended over him, planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Don’t stress. It’s not the end of the world.”

 

**“Simple Man”// Lynyrd Skynyrd**

**One time you said to me, “I wish I could just be normal.” I asked what you meant, and you said you wished you weren’t anxious all the time, always overthinking. I told you that there’s nothing wrong with you. You didn’t believe me.**

**I want you to know that because of you, I find happiness in all the little things. There was an afternoon where you and I were sitting on my back porch, it was spring, and the sun had come out for the first time in a while. Sparky was sitting in the grass with his face tilted up to the sky, and you were reading a book with your legs across my lap and I remember thinking that this was it. This is happiness.**

**We can’t be normal. We’ll never be normal. But we love each other. At least, in that, we’re doing something right.**

 

It had rained earlier that morning. Kyle inhaled the damp air, dribbled the basketball on the wet concrete of the driveway. He shot through the hoop and old rainwater sprayed on his face.

“Ugh,” he wiped his face with his tee-shirt. He shook it off and shot again. The ball moved through the net and bounced back down into his hands.

Wendy appeared on the sidewalk and opened her hands.

“Hey, toss it to me.”

Kyle bounced it to her, and she dribbled around him, shot for the basket- it hit the rim and fell to the grass.

“That was pretty close,” Kyle said, trying to sound extra polite.

“Let me do it again,” she said, picking it up, “I was just nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“I gotta ask you something,” she threw the ball and missed again.

“Shoot. Well, the question I mean.”

She circled the ball in her hands, “It’s kind of a big question.”

“I’m all for big questions.”

“Bebe is moving back to Brussels with me.”

“Holy shit.”

“And… I know you’re supposed to go to UCF in the fall.”

“I’ve actually decided not to. I don’t think I’ll be ready to go anywhere.”

“Oh. This will be more difficult to ask now.”

“Just ask.”

She tossed the ball back to Kyle, “I was going to ask you if you wanted to move back with me. You could get into one of the colleges there… But looking at your face now, it seems I already have my answer.”

“Stan’s here. My brother’s here. Kenny’s here. I can’t.”

“What about just for summer? It might be good for you.”

“If I didn’t have a court hearing set up next month, I might have.”

“Court?”

“I’m getting my name changed… to Marsh. It’s the only thing I can do. I looked into, like, actual marriage, but they need proof, like a receipt for a down payment at a banquet hall or something… And I have nothing. This is the only way I can say ‘yes’ now.”

“I see…” She opened her hands for the ball again, shot, and it went through the net this time.

“Nice,” said Kyle.

“You can marry someone after they die?” she asked, scratching her elbow.

“People marry cars and shit. Why not dead people?” He threw the ball. It hit the board.

“So…” she pointed at his tee-shirt, “Who’s Strawberry Migraine?”

“Oh, they were a band that Stan really liked.”

“Were?”

“Van accident. They all died before they could really make it big. It really sucked. Stan wouldn’t talk for a week.”

“Damn…”

Kyle dissolved into a flashback. The colorful lights, thumping music, Stan leaning on his shoulder, the guy that gave them beer, the X on his hand, the girl with the septum piercing…

“Wendy, do you wanna hang out today? There’s something I’ve always wanted to do and it’d be cool if you came.”

Wendy put her hands on her hips and smiled, “Sure, I’m down.”

 

Sitting in the corner with a small purse in her lap, shoulders scrunched, Wendy Testaburger decided she didn’t like this place. As soon as they walked in, she decided she didn’t like it. She didn’t like the trapped humidity, the stickiness, the creaking floorboards, the cubicle where her, Kyle, and the piercer were shacked up.

“Okay, Kyle, I need you to breathe through your mouth for a second so I can clean out your nose,” the piercer, a young man with dreads and tattoos on his neck leaned over Kyle with a sanitary napkin and wiped the inside of his nostrils.

“Did your neck tattoos hurt?” Wendy asked.

“Not really. I have a pretty high pain tolerance.”

“I do, too,” Kyle said, looking up at the man’s face, half-covered by a surgical mask. “I may as well be living voodoo doll.”

The dream came back, pulling and pulling the strings. A puppet. His fingers twitched as if someone was pulling on them now.

Wendy leaned forward, “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit nervous, I guess.”

“It’ll be over fast. I’m gonna put this rag over your face. Your eyes are gonna water.”

“Okay…” He closed his eyes. Crying was becoming a hobby these days. The cloth went over his eyes and a single beam of pressure centered the inside of his nose.

“I’m just trying to find the best spot. I’ll let you know when I’m about to pierce.”

Wendy slid her hand into Kyle’s. She didn’t like the place, but Kyle was so excited, she didn’t have to heart to say so. When he had said that he wanted to make a change, she didn’t think it would be physical.  _ Maybe he’ll work his way to his insides. _

Having the cloth over his eyes gave him a memory of being a child that was always sick, his mother with a cool cloth on his forehead. She told him once that if he ate apple seeds, an apple tree would grow in his stomach. He had laid in bed that night, just like this, wondering how it would feel to have petals blossom from his mouth, leaves sprout from his ears. Would his bones be replaced with branches? Or would they stick out of his back like a porcupine?

“Okay, we’re going in,” the silver needle pushed through flesh- Kyle jolted, sucked in his breath through his teeth. His eyes watered. Relief, a puncture into tension, curled around him.

(so this is what stan was talking about the pain the pain it feels better to feel it on the outside instead o god my insides i cant do this anymore)

 

**“Carry on Wayward Son”// Kansas**

**This song isn’t romantic at all, but for us, it kind of is. It made me realize how much I need you. How I’ve always needed you. And I always will.**

Maybe it was the sensitive beast in him, the observer, the neutral, the petal on a plot of grass, that made Stan watch Kenny in the way that he did. One introvert to another. In the seventh grade, they had gym together. First period.

Kenny always sat on the sidelines in jeans and a tee-shirt, knees apart, elbows leaning against the bleachers. Coach Ferguson had given up pestering him two weeks into the semester.

“If the boy wants to fail, let him fail. That’s his God-given right,” he explained to the other students.

Stan bounded over to Kenny one day. “Dude, we’re gonna play basketball. You love basketball.”

“I don’t wanna get sweaty,” Kenny stated, cracking his neck from side to side.

“So? Like, that’s what the showers are for. Everyone gets sweaty.”

“You, especially. Why would you wear long sleeves? It’s not that cold yet.”

Stan pulled the sleeves of his Adidas shirt over his knuckles, “I have a rash.”

“Really? I wanna see.” Kenny stood up. Stan crossed his arms and stepped back.

“No, it’s all sticky and covered in Vaseline. Super gross.”

“But I like gross stuff.”

“Damn, okay.”

“Are you gonna play with us or not?”

Kenny sat back down, “Hell no.”

“Oh, come on. If you don’t wanna shower, then just put on deodorant and just use a shitton of the Axe body spray. That’s what I do.”

“I don’t have that stuff.”

“You left it at home?”

“No, I just don’t have it.”

Coach Ferguson blew his whistle. “Hey, Marsh! We’re starting! Get your cracker jack ass over here!”

“Coming!” Stan lowered his voice for Kenny, “You don’t have deodorant?”

He rolled his eyes, shifting on the bench. “It’s hard to get some. It’s between getting soap and feeling clean or getting food so Karen doesn’t go to school hungry.”

Coach Ferguson called for Stan again. He trickled back to his classmates, glancing back at Kenny now and then.

The next morning, Stan cornered Kenny in the locker room, when all the other boys had dressed and gone out. A plastic grocery bag was in his hands.

“Here,” Stan thrusted the bag toward him before he could brush past.

“What the hell is this?”

“I don’t want you to fail so I brought you some of my gym clothes… I think we’re about the same size. There’s deodorant and body wash in there too… Just let me know if you need more.”

Kenny stared at him. He wanted to punch Stan square in the face but he kept his fists to himself.

“I am not a charity case, Stan.”

“No, you’re not. You’re my friend. And friends help each other.”

“You sound like you’re in fucking kindergarten.”

“So? I don’t care what I sound like. Just take the shit,” he pushed it into Kenny’s chest. He smiled. He thought it things could be like how it was, laughing and joking all the time. “You don’t even have to thank me. Just play some basketball with me.”

Kenny held onto the bag with both arms. Stan walked away, only managing a few steps before Kenny called out:

“Don’t be nice to me, Stan.”

Stan turned back, his face scrunched up in confusion.

“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? You’re my best friend.”

“I thought Kyle was your best friend.”

“Well… yeah. But he’s my boyfriend now.”

“Yep,” Kenny said as quick a bone break, terser than he expected to sound.

Sometimes Kenny’s dreams replays this image over and over again: Stan turns around to face him, eyes peeking out from shaggy black hair, the red lockers warp around him.

Stan says: “You’ve got something you wanna say to me? Now would be a good time.”

The answers always varied. Sometimes Kenny would say something like (you feel sorry for me because you think youre better you think youre so much better than me) or (you knew you fucking knew you could sense i was confused we were both confused and you fucking knew and you stole him right from under me) or just (fuck OFF). Recently, the things he said revolved around (youre dead stan.. … ..stop giving me your clothes)

But in real life, Kenny said nothing, his lips tight and eyes solemn.

Stan pressed: “What?”

Kenny swallowed and said, “Nothing. It’s nothing. I was thinking of something else.”

 

**“Always Forever”// Cults**

**It’s pretty obvious why I picked this song for you. You’re my ‘always forever.’ But I also feel like this song could play in the background of a fervent stabbing and knew you’d appreciate that, haha.**

 

Stinging skin. His eyes stung all the time. If he could burrow himself into the thin mattress, he would. The other inmates bustled in the hallway, steering clear of Cartman’s space. They saw his red eyes. His gray, cracking skin.

Other days had been stronger than this one. Tuesday he was able to throw a ball clear across the lawn and over the fence. Wednesday he couldn’t take three steps without pausing for a breath. Thursday he fantasized about slaughtering anyone that so much as glanced at him. He just wanted to hurt someone.

Kenny’s letter, as Kenny predicted, pissed him off. Kenny had always been a “sympathy for the devil” type, and Cartman played him like a fiddle until fucking Kyle got back in the picture. Not even Cartman could sever that tie- Kyle had become the fiddle player, but not a good one. He might sit there and pluck the strings with the skill of a dead duck.

“I’m an idiot… Kyle’s the fiddle now.”

_ I’m going to skin him and make him a tapestry. _

A spider crept up on the cinder block wall next to him. He shifted over and grabbed its bulbous body in his thumb and forefinger.

“I’ve never understood why you fuckers have so many legs. Not like you actually need them.”

With his other hand, he pulled off a leg. The spider twitched, the seven remaining legs stirring wildly.

Setting it on the floor, he wondered if spiders could cry. It stayed still.

“Come on, you can move,” he nudged it with his pinky. It teetered across the concrete. “You’re a little off-balance, I should have figured that.” He picked up the spider again and plucked a leg from the other side, set it back down. A deflated spider wobbled away from the bed.

“Cartman.” Officer Chakwas appeared in the doorway, “You’ve got laundry duty.”

Cartman slouched over the side of the bed dramatically. “I feel so sick. And I can’t leave now, I just made a new friend,” he pointed at the spider, “Its name is Kyle.”

Chakwas, used to Cartman’s psycho-diva antics, stuck his thumbs through his belt loops and shook his head, “Don’t try to get out of it.”

“I mean it.”

“You’re lying. You always lie.”

His vision blurred as the spider went for the escape, trying faster.

The stomach turns.

Acidity in the nostrils, dirt and blood poured from his mouth.

“What the fuck!” Chakwas jumped back.

Cartman smiled, grains of soil between his teeth and crimson smeared across his lips, “I guess you’re right. It’s not really sickness if you’ve done it to yourself.”

_ I’m fucked. _

 

**“Die Young”// Sylvan Esso**

**I don’t want to say that I planned on dying young.**

**But.**

**You’ve stopped me from dying young.**

 

Kyle Broflovski, everyone’s favorite know-it-all, the nerd, the lanky tall kid next door that sometimes doesn’t wash his hair enough and can’t stand people who brush their teeth in the shower looked at himself in the mirror, the piercing so foreign. When he moved his nose, it hurt a little.

Ike liked it. His parents did not. Gerald said Only Ugly People Get Facial Piercings. Kyle said Well I’m Happy To Be Ugly Then.

He wiggled his nose again, the cartilage burned.

(its not enough not e n o u g h   not enough notenough enough)

No more cigarettes because Kenny made it so that he spits up the black stuff every time he does so he uses the burning sticks to create glowing planets in his arms.


End file.
